


Humanising Sherlock

by Mead13



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Drunk John, Drunk Sex, Fake/Pretend Relationship, First Time, John is a Saint, M/M, Pretending to Be Gay, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Virgin Sherlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-03
Updated: 2014-03-13
Packaged: 2018-01-03 08:43:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 24,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1068423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mead13/pseuds/Mead13
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is having trouble getting cases due to his public persona as a haughty, intimidating freak. When John suggests to him that people simply need to find something 'normal' in him that they can relate to, Sherlock forms a plan that will change his and John's lives forever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It was well past bed time at 221B Baker Street and a despondent feeling hung in the air. John sat in his armchair with his usual before-bed cup of tea. He had been scrolling through his blog, rereading old cases and comments.  Life had been pretty quiet lately, so quiet that he had picked up extra shifts at the clinic and left Sherlock home alone for long periods of time. John knew that Sherlock was growing restless and resentful at him; he made it very clear with his silences and glares. Yet John forgave Sherlock as he always seemed so pleased to see him when he returned home from work.  As soon as John walked through the door, Sherlock would just start talking. He would chatter away happily for a while, walking back and forward across the living room, hands clasped behind his back and describing his latest experiment in great detail. But as the evening wore on he became more and more sullen, realising that the doctor would abandon him soon again.

John was just about to get up and start getting ready for bed when Sherlock entered the living room in a huff and threw himself on the couch. 

"Lestrade said he has nothing for me. Nothing! Not even the smallest of murders! How can that be?" He stamped his feet on the end of the couch and glared at John, noticing his companion was on his laptop.

"Any emails? Any visitors? Even a bloody letter would do," he asked hopefully.

"Nope, not a thing," John answered. "Sorry."

John glanced at Sherlock as he lay quietly on the couch staring at the ceiling.  He was worried about his friend. He had never gone this long without a case before.  How long could he last before he cracked? Sherlock grabbed a tabloid newspaper lying on the table beside him and started flipping through the pages. He stopped on a page and became engrossed in an article. John went back to reading the first case he wrote ‘A Study in Pink’. He remembered how stunned he had been when he had met the consulting detective, how completely amazed he was – and still is - of his intellect. He was certainly the most interesting person he had ever met, and John knew that the time he had spent with the perplexing man was the happiest he had ever been in his life. No two days were alike, and you never knew what the week would bring. John smiled to himself and looked fondly at his friend. He couldn’t imagine his life without him.

"Ah ha!" Sherlock leapt off the couch, waving the glossy newspaper in the air like a Victorian paper boy.  He held it up  in front of John’s face and pointed to a photo of himself beside a short story headlined ‘Sherlock Holmes:  the disappearing detective’.

"Look at what the media is doing to me. Listen to what they wrote. _Consulting detective Sherlock Holmes, famously known for his uncanny ability to solve the most puzzling of crimes, has been out of action of late. It is believed Holmes has retired from detective work, instead choosing a reclusive life. Little is known about the detective’s private life, but a source has stated that Holmes does not like human contact and is sociopathic in nature. The source stated that Holmes had terrible people skills and was intimidating to work with. A co-worker described him as a "freak" and "mentally unstable." Holmes has not issued a return statement on the comments."_ Sherlock threw the trashy paper on top of John’s laptop.

"This is the problem. Idiots like Anderson and Donovan keep lying about me to the press, and people eat this stuff up. This is why no one brings me cases anymore."

John picked up the paper and looked at the photo. It wasn’t the most flattering, he had to admit. Sherlock stood tall and proud, his hands clasped behind his back, a sneer on his face. He looked like the most unapproachable person in the world. John smiled at the photo. He had seen that look on Sherlock’s face dozens of times. It was the face he had when someone was being especially stupid.

"Well, you just aren’t letting the world know the real you," John said, grinning.

Sherlock glared at him.

"Maybe you need a new angle, or a new image. People just don’t understand you. They haven’t worked you out yet, and that scares them."

John was well aware how difficult his friend could be to work with, yet none of that seemed to matter to the army doctor. He simply enjoyed spending time with him, listening to him talk and going on crazy adventures with him. Sherlock’s faults, as numerous and harsh as they were, paled in comparison to the bond that had grown between them.

"What do you mean?" Sherlock demanded.

John rolled his eyes. "You’re not _normal_ Sherlock. You know that. People can’t relate to you."

Sherlock stared at John for a few seconds, his face blank.

"People relate to you."

John sighed. "Well that’s because I am normal. I go outside, I have girlfriends, I go to the pub, and I’m not freakishly intelligent, tall and wear an intimidating coat everywhere."

Sherlock frowned. "But I don’t want any of that though, and I shouldn’t have to pretend to be something I’m not."

"Well, you will have to find something that does work for you, because this," John pointed to the article, "will only get worse."

Sherlock took the paper from John and sat back down.

"A new angle…," he muttered. A look came over Sherlock’s face that John knew only too well. It meant he was disappearing into his thoughts and may not resurface for hours. John sighed and stood up to go to bed. He was curious to see how the mastermind would solve this mystery. The Case of Humanising Sherlock.


	2. Chapter two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to the next chapter! Hope you will stick around :)  
> I can’t remember where, but I know it was in the canon somewhere that Holmes played his violin to Watson to help him sleep. I can’t find it though! Anyway, I thought was wonderfully romantic and added it in.

John awoke the next morning to the sounds of someone ringing the doorbell. He groaned and glanced at his clock. It read 10.46am. Startled at his uncharacteristic sleep in, he quickly jumped out of bed, threw on his dressing gown and hurried downstairs.  
He reached the front door in no time, smoothed down his sleep-messed hair and opened the door. On the front step stood a woman with sandy-coloured hair, kind eyes and a smirk on her face.  
“Hello John,” she said.  
“Hello Harry,” John replied in monotone. His initial shock at seeing his sister was quickly overtaken by suspicion. They stood silent in the doorway, each waiting for the other to make the next move. John cleared his throat.  
“I suppose you had better come in then.”  
Harry rolled her eyes and barged past John into the house and up the stairs. They entered the apartment without speaking. John quickly glanced around but Sherlock was nowhere to be seen. He wouldn’t be asleep still, he must have gone out John surmised.  
“Take a seat, I'll make some tea,” John said, motioning to his chair. He went into the kitchen and switched the kettle on. What was she doing here? Harry always had an ulterior motive. She had never before dropped by for a visit at 221B Baker St, which John was thankful of. Their relationship was strained and stressful and they both knew it.  
John quickly made two cups of tea and walked back into the lounge, handing one to his sister. He settled down in Sherlock’s chair, grasping the hot cup tightly.  
“So,” Harry said, “what’s all this I hear about you shacking up with a man?”  
John glanced up in surprise. “What? Sherlock? It’s not like that Harry.” John put his tea on the coffee table and sat rigid in his chair. So his sister was here to have a go at him. It was going to be one of those types of visits.  
“Where is he then? Your man, The Great Sherlock Holmes,” she said, looking around the room, as if he might he hiding behind the drapes.  
John gritted his teeth.  
“He is not ‘my man’, he is my roommate. I don’t know where he is,” John said rigidly.  
“Oh I have hit a nerve!” Harry laughed. “Come on John, everyone knows you and Sherlock are an item. It’s all over the papers, and I read your blog John, talk about gushing! Sherlock is amazing, Sherlock is incredible, Sherlock is wonderful blah blah blah. It’s so obvious!”  
“It is?” said a voice from the doorway. John and Harry both look up in surprise at the tall figure standing behind them. Sherlock entered the room and stood next to John, he placed a hand on the back of his chair.  
“It’s not!” John yelled before either of them could say another word. “I mean, there’s nothing there! Stop meddling Harry!”  
Harry and Sherlock in a room together. John’s worst fears were coming true. He knew they would eventually meet one day, he had always hoped that it would be in the very, very distant future.  
“You must be Harry,” Sherlock said, but didn’t extend his hand to shake hers, choosing to stay at John’s side.  
“Yes, and you must be Sherlock Holmes, the man my brother is so fanatical about.”  
John watched as Sherlock stood silently, mulling over her words and evaluating her character.  
“John is a close and dear friend, we are not lovers,” Sherlock said simply.  
John relaxed a little, glad to have Sherlock on his side. He was starting to get very annoyed with his sister. Who did she think she was? Barging into his home and insinuating he and Sherlock were … well, lovers. It was preposterous. John scowled and opened his mouth to speak but was silenced as Harry once again began her tirade.  
“You’re a single man in your mid 30s who lives with another single man,” she said.  
“So?” John answered.  
“John it makes sense! You and Sherlock make sense together. It answers a lot of questions!”  
“It does?” Sherlock said quietly, his eyebrows raised.  
Harry glanced up at the taller man. “Yes, I was so worried about John living here with you, alone. I couldn’t help but ask myself over and over ‘why?’, but now it all makes perfect sense.”  
Sherlock gave her a questioning look.  
“Do I seem more normal to you now? Now that you know I’m … gay?” Sherlock asked.  
John couldn’t believe his ears. Sherlock was not gay, Sherlock wasn’t anything. What was this game he was playing with Harry?  
“Stop messing around Sherlock! You’re not gay, I’m not gay. We’re not a couple.”  
“John, I was simply testing a theory,” Sherlock said.  
Harry sat forward in the chair, her eyes intent on Sherlock.  
“You can’t tell me you don’t love my brother,” she said, exasperated.  
Sherlock gazed thoughtfully out the window.  
“Sometimes I play my violin for him to help him sleep,” he said unexpectantly.  
Startled, John sat upright in his chair and Harry laughed gleefully.  
“Why would you tell her that!?” John yelped, his face tinged with a blush. He didn’t want his sister to know that detail of their lives. She was sure to use it against him.  
It was true though. Some nights, when John was restless and troubled by painful memories, Sherlock would sit quietly in the living room playing soft, sweet music. It always soothed John and he had always known it was for his benefit, but they had never uttered a word about it to each other. It was an unspoken agreement between them. Now it was out in the open, a stack of kindling waiting to ignite.  
Harry was clearly enjoying the conversation.  
“John sooner or later you will realise it, and then I can stop worrying about you. This relationship you have, whatever you think it is, or isn’t, you have to admit it’s the best one you have ever had,” she said.  
She stood up and faced the two men, taking them both in. Her brother; kind and warm, sitting dejectedly with his face in his hands. She knew she was pushing him too hard, but she told herself that it was in his best interests. She glanced at Sherlock; tall, proud and unreadable. He still stood next to John’s chair, almost protectively she noted. His eyes locked with hers.  
“You take care of him Sherlock,” she said.  
Sherlock moved to take the chair she had just vacated.  
“I always do,” he replied.  
John sighed heavily and stood up to walk Harry to the front door, waiting for her to get in her final say. Sure enough, she did.  
“That man,” she nodded towards Sherlock, “will love you like no one else will.”  
John opened the front door for her. He had given up arguing. It was always a losing battle against his sister, always had been.  
“Thanks for stopping by Harry, see you soon.”


	3. Chapter 3

John slammed the door behind his sister and bounded back up the stairs to the apartment.  
“And that my dear friend is why I avoid my sister,” he said to Sherlock, who looked at him with curiosity.  
“All those things she pointed out though. They make sense,” Sherlock said quietly.  
John sat in his armchair and put his face in his hands and groaned.  
“Don’t you start too. Why must the whole world think I’m gay?”  
“When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, how…” Sherlock started lecturing before John cut him off.  
“Yes, I know all that. You have told me a million times. “  
“But don’t you see John, it’s so obvious!”  
Sherlock’s eyes lit up and he started pacing back and forth across the living room.  
“Harry kept her distance because she didn’t understand you, me, us. Once the mystery had been solved in her mind, she was able to relax. That’s how the public feels about me John. They want to work me out, to make sense of me in their tiny minds so they can be comfortable with me. People are always scared of what they don’t understand.”  
John leaned back in his armchair, not sure where Sherlock was going with his train of thought, and not sure he really wanted to know.  
“But maybe, just maybe, if we finally came out as a couple…” Sherlock began before John interjected.  
“But we’re NOT a couple Sherlock!” He gripped the sides of his armchair in panic. What was Sherlock suggesting exactly? He opened his mouth to protest some more but realised it would be pointless as Sherlock had clearly made up his mind.  
“I know we’re not, but the people out there will believe what we tell them,” Sherlock said as he sat down in his armchair opposite John.  
John looked over at his companion. He didn’t want to admit it but Sherlock was right. People had always been confused by the pair’s relationship, that was evident by the amount of times they had been mistaken for a couple. He thought back to those occasions. People had seemed more comfortable with them when they assumed the men were together, it was only when John corrected them that they became wary and withdrawn.  
He took a deep breath. “I can’t believe I’m going to say this, but I think you’re right.”  
Sherlock’s face lit up and John couldn’t help but smile at how joyous he looked. A part of him deep down felt pleased that he had made Sherlock feel that way, when so few people could.  
“Obviously,” Sherlock replied. “Now, we need a plan.” He put his long hands together and rested his chin on them, studying John. “How do people usually become couples in the public eye?”  
John gazed at Sherlock, noticing the deep intention and concentration in his eye and for the first time realised how seriously the detective was taking this. That man really would do anything to get a case, he thought. But desperate times call for desperate measures.  
“Well usually they go on dates, out to dinner, movies, things like that. Spend a lot of time together, stay over at each other’s houses and eventually live together,” John said.  
Sherlock, being a much more observant man than John immediately noticed the irony in the doctor’s words.  
“Yes, well, that won’t work for us will it? According to you, we have already been a couple for a long time then.”  
John couldn’t help but laugh at his friend’s words. “Ah, I have been so blind.”  
The men sat in silence for a while, each mulling over what it means to be in a couple. John had been in relationships before, all unsuccessful, all with women. He had no idea what experience Sherlock has had, if any. He cleared his throat.  
“So …,” he started, trying to be casual. “Have you any experience in being in couple?” He asked. Sherlock answered him by shooting him a dark look.  
“I have no interest in trivial matters such as relationships, you know that John.”  
John raised his eyebrows. “So you’ve never … you know, been with anyone?” John was testing the waters, he knew Sherlock had a breaking point when it came to personal questions and he was definitely pushing him. Sherlock sat rigid in his chair, avoiding John’s gaze.  
John couldn’t believe how utterly uncomfortable Sherlock looked. He had never seen him look so uneasy, and they had been in some very uneasy situations before.  
“Sherlock? It’s ok if you haven’t you know,” he said gently.  
“I know it’s ok!” Sherlock spat out, jumping up from his chair to resume his pacing.  
“I’m not side-tracked by weak-minded animal instincts like other people John, I have nothing to be ashamed of.”  
John sighed and stood up. He walked to Sherlock and placed a calming hand on his shoulder. Sherlock stopped pacing and looked down into his friend’s kind eyes.  
“Sherlock. I don’t think you have thought this through. Do you really, absolutely want to pretend we are in a relationship? Do you honestly think this will help?”  
Sherlock paused for thought, then slowly with the unhuman grace he seemed to possess, took John’s hand from his shoulder and held it between his two larger ones. He took a deep breath.  
“John I know I ask too much of you. You have sacrificed enough for me already, I can’t ask you to do this.”  
Sherlock looked so lost, so completely innocent and young that John’s heart went out to him.  
“Sherlock, you know I would do anything for you,” he said it so quietly he wasn’t even sure Sherlock heard him, but when he gazed up into his eyes, and saw the startled wonderment in them, he knew he had. Sherlock dropped John’s hand and went to look out the window. John knew he had a hard time processing emotions and would need time to himself now, to think, to recharge and to plan. He quietly grabbed his jacket and left the house, knowing that when he returned in a few hours Sherlock would, as always, have their next move all planned out.  
John thought that after all he had been through with the genius detective, he should be used to being in ridiculous situations, however this was a new one for the duo. John tried not to think about it, because he knew once he started delving into the implications, the long-term effects and the results of what he had just agreed to do, he would certainly change his mind. He pushed his misgivings deep down inside him; he would deal with them later, much later. The only thought swirling around his mind as he traipsed though the streets was one simple line, repeating itself over and over in his mind.  
 _I am now Sherlock Holmes’ boyfriend._


	4. Chapter 4

Just as John expected, their faux coming out was horrendously embarrassing, mainly due to the fact that Sherlock clearly had no idea what he was doing. As a man of action, the consulting detective took it on himself to inform everyone that he and John were now an item. John watched his flatmate’s repeatedly failing attempts with a twisted mixture of humour and mortification.

They decided the first person they should tell was Mrs Hudson. Sherlock decided the best way to tell her was to simply yell it down the stairs.

"Mrs Hudson, John and I are very much in love," he shouted.

"That’s nice dear," she replied simply.

Sherlock seemed to think it went well.

The next person they decided to tell was not as simple.

"I think we should talk to Molly before she hears it from someone else," John said.

"Mmm," Sherlock hummed in agreement. He stood up and started to put his jacket and scarf on, indicating that now was as good a time as any.

Before they entered the lab, John placed a hand on Sherlock’s chest, stopping him. He needed to make something very clear to him before they talked to the sweet doctor.

"Be gentle, be kind Sherlock." He gave him a hard look. Sherlock opened his mouth as if to speak, but snapped it shut and nodded once. John let out a sigh of relief, glad that Sherlock understood.

When they entered the lab, Molly was bent over a table, examining a beaker full of liquid. She turned and smiled at them.

"Oh hello Sherlock, hello John, what brings you two down here?" she asked cheerily.

The men stood awkwardly, each awaiting the other one to speak. John kept his mouth clamped shut. There was no way he was doing this, he had taken a bullet on the battlefield, he wasn’t going to take this one. Besides, this whole ridiculous idea had been Sherlock’s in the first place, however John was slightly curious to see how he would handle it. He had never seen the detective look so uncomfortable.

"Molly, we need to tell you something, and we thought it best if you hear it from us first," Sherlock said.

The smile fell from her face and she placed the beaker she was holding back on the table.

"What is it? What’s happened?"

Sherlock looked down at John and moved slowly. He slipped his glove off and reached his hand out, taking John’s hand in his. He wove their fingers together; it was a touch of overt tenderness. Sherlock looked up at Molly, her eyes widening at the sight.

"Oh!" She raised a hand to her mouth. "You … and John?"

Sherlock nodded. She sat down in a chair, her mouth still slightly hanging open.

"How… how long? She asked, directing her gaze at John. It was almost accusatory, like it was all his fault.

Before John could reply, Sherlock interjected.

"Not long, we only just discovered our true feelings recently. We were both just too stubborn to see it before." Sherlock squeezed John’s hand.

Molly sat quietly for a moment, and then to their shock, she burst out laughing.

"Oh, thank goodness. I am actually so relieved," she said as she wiped her face with her sleeve. She looked up at the two men standing in front of her. Everything she knew about Sherlock and John flashed through her mind. Images of them with their heads bent close together, whispering about case facts. The long, silent looks they gave each other. The heated debates, the unnecessary touching and the way they stared at each other when the other wasn’t looking. Of course they were in love, how could she have been so blind?

"I was always so hurt at constantly being turned down by you Sherlock, but now it all makes sense. What a relief!" She was smiling now, grinning at the duo.

Sherlock was still holding John’s hand. It was so warm.

"See John, it all makes sense," Sherlock smiled and John rolled his eyes.

They caught a cab outside the hospital, Sherlock stating ‘Scotland Yard’ as they climbed into the back seat. John groaned out loud. This was going to be painful.

"Do we have to do it today?"

Sherlock frowned at him. "It went well with Molly."

"Yes, but telling Molly was a lot different than telling London’s police force."

It suddenly hit John what he was getting himself in to. He was so used to unquestioningly going along with Sherlock’s schemes that he hadn’t really stopped to think it all through.  Every week a new challenge arose, but his trust in Sherlock’s intelligence and scrupulous planning never wavered. Sherlock always knew the plan, always knew that what he was doing was the right thing. But this, this was different, and John wasn’t sure Sherlock knew entirely what he was getting himself into.  

As they hopped out of the cab at Scotland Yard, John started to sweat and a queasy feeling started spreading from his stomach to his brain.  He tried to ignore it. He had been in much more terrifying situations before. He had been a soldier for God’s sake. He pulled himself together and cleared his mind.

"So what’s the plan?" he asked.

Sherlock gave him a blank look and then glanced up at the building.

"Simple, we go in, we tell them we’re a couple, and then we go home and wait for a new case."

John felt like shaking some sense into his friend. Did he really think it was going to be that simple? Was he really that naïve?

"Ok, you’re the boss. Lead the way."

Sherlock strode into Lestrade’s office ahead of John, not bothering to knock. Lestrade looked up guiltily from his computer.

"Sherlock! I didn’t know you were coming in. I don’t have anything for you at the moment," he said, far too quickly.

"Well we know that’s not true. I read the papers, I know about the triple homicide you are stuck on. I also know that some of your officers have been leaking lies about me to the press," Sherlock said.

"They’re not lies, freak," a voice from the doorway said. Sherlock and John turned to see Donovan and Anderson standing with their arms crossed and smug looks on their faces.

Sherlock gave them a quick glance, the sort of look someone might give a smudge of dirt on their clean clothes.

"I’m not here about a case, I am, or should I say, _we_ are," he turned and grabbed John’s arm, pulling him next to him, "we are here to tell you something."

Lestrade raised an eyebrow. "Is that so? Go on then."

John shifted uncomfortably, knowing what was coming next. 

"John and I are …," he begun.

"Are what? An item?" Donovan snapped from the doorway, startling everyone in the room. "Is that what you were going to say?" She raised her eyebrows.

Sherlock gave her such a deep look of contempt that it was almost frightening.

"Yes I was, actually." He glared at her.  She unconsciously took a step backwards.

"What is this drivel? Are we really supposed to believe that?" Anderson spoke up from behind Sally.

Lestrade put his hands up. "Alright, alright. What’s going on Sherlock? John? Why are you here? Enough messing around, all of you."

Sherlock gave Anderson and Donovan one last glare before turning back to Lestrade, his face perfectly straight. John stood close to his side, ready to do whatever was needed. He wanted to wipe the smug, mocking looks off everyone’s faces.

"We wanted you to know before the media got hold of it. John and I are now a couple. I don’t think this will professionally make any difference to my work, so I am still available to take on any cases. Albeit, only the interesting ones, obviously."

He said it all so calmly, that John couldn’t help but grin at his friend. Sherlock smiled back at him, and once again, reached out and clasped his hand. Neither noticed the stunned silence in the room. However, it was soon broken.

"Bullshit," Donovan said. "He’s messing with you Inspector! This is one of his games. I don’t believe it for a second."

Lestrade frowned and turned his focus to John. "Is this true John?"

John nodded. "Yes, it was … uh, a bit of a surprise, but yeah it’s true."

Sherlock gripped John’s hand tighter and moved slightly closer to him. It wasn’t enough to convince their audience though. Donovan strode forward to stand in front of them.

"Don’t fall for it! There is no way those two are dating. This freak," she pointed an accusing finger at Sherlock, "doesn’t have emotions; he doesn’t care for anybody but himself. John is just a pawn in one of his twisted games," she yelled.

The grip on John’s hand suddenly became painfully tight as Sherlock squeezed. John glanced up at him and noticed the clench of his jaw, the narrowing of his eyes. Not a good sign.

"Don’t pretend you know me Sally. You have no idea who I am. What I have with John is something you will never understand because you live a pathetic, small life where your one great delight is sleeping with a married college," he spat out.

"Fine. Kiss him then. Kiss him now and I will believe you," she said back, her cheeks flushed with hatred.

John’s eyes widened in panic. This was not at all going how he had planned. In fact it was going far worse than he could have imagined. Sherlock must have noticed how heavily he was sweating due to the slickness of their hands, still clinging together. The tension in the air was almost painful.

"I will not perform for you, I don’t need to prove myself," Sherlock answered, suddenly dropping John’s sweaty hand. Bad move, thought John. They were losing them.

"See! What did I tell you! Complete fakes. Get out of here Sherlock, you complete freak, and leave poor John alone and stop dragging him into your weird fantasies." There was intense hatred in Donovan’s words.

Lestrade sighed and motioned for Donovan and Anderson to leave the room. They both shot Sherlock one last dark look and left.

Lestrade rubbed a hand over his face.

"I don’t know what you are playing at Sherlock, if this is true or not, but you need to sort yourself out. I don’t care what’s happening between you and John, all I can say is that it is a dangerous game you are playing and just … be careful. The Donovans of the world are waiting for you to slip up every second."

Having lived with him for well over a year now, John knew when Sherlock was deeply unhappy. He could tell in the way he held himself, the set of his jaw and the crease between his brows. This had not gone how he had imagined. 

"The case?" Sherlock asked, his hands clasped behind his back.

Lestrade sighed and slumped his shoulders slightly. He seemed to be fighting to find the right words to say.

"Look, Sherlock. There is just too much negative press about you at the moment. I can’t risk the public turning against the police. I’m sorry, but my hands are tied on this. Maybe lay low for a while, three or four months at least, let the press find something else to bitch about, then maybe we will see how things are."

John stood solidly by Sherlock’s side, waiting as the seconds ticked by for the detective to move, to speak, to explode, to do anything. But he didn’t. He simply stood still, staring straight ahead, lost in his own mind. Suddenly he turned on his heels.

"Thank you for your time Detective Inspector," he said as he left the room. John glanced back at Lestrade as they left the office. He sat dejectedly in his chair.

They remained silent in the cab ride home, and well into the evening. John sat quietly reading, but keeping a close eye on his flatmate who stood staring out the window, his violin in his hands.  Failure was not something the detective took well. John waited patiently, knowing sooner or later Sherlock would blurt out his new plan and that if he wasn’t there to hear it, it would not be explained again and he would have to work it out for himself. John wasn’t surprised the "couple" approach hadn’t worked out. It was a lie that in no way could be sustained for an extended period of time, he thought.  It was probably for the best that course of action hadn’t been successful, John told himself. It would have been an utter disaster. He was just about to break the silence and share his thoughts when Sherlock swung around to face him, his eyes blazing. He pointed his violin’s bow at John.

"This isn’t over yet John," he waved the bow in the air; "you know what we need to do."

John leaned forward in his chair, eager to hear what the new plan was, fascinated to find out what the genius detective had thought of next.

"We need to take things to the next level. We need to go public. We need to go to the press. Fight fire with fire."

John was confused. "Go to the press with what?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, a slight smile quirking up the edge of his lips. "Really John, I do wish you would think."  John scowled, but it just made Sherlock smile wider.

"One photo should do the job I think."

John started to slightly panic.

"One photo of _what?"_


	5. Chapter 5

John Watson sat at his desk during his lunch break going over and over Sherlock’s words in his mind.

_One photo._

The answer sat at John’s subconscious, he knew it was there, but dared not think on it too long for fear of what might come to his mind.

_One photo of what?_

He mouthed the words, remembering the previous night when Sherlock had said them. He had then promptly turned and left, leaving a stunned and babbling John sitting in his chair, repeating his question to an empty room.

Work consumed John for the rest of the afternoon. He tried to concentrate on his patients, an old lady with a cold, a kid with a toy stuck up his nose, a teenage boy getting the cast off his broken leg, but all the while the words ‘one photo’ kept popping into his mind.

Eventually he farewelled his last patient, packed up and headed off home. He hadn’t seen Sherlock as he left the apartment that morning, but he had heard him leave early, presumably on some form of mission.

* * *

 

He made his way home, thoroughly exhausted from a long day at work combined with a restless night sleep. As he trudged up the stairs to his apartment he could smell the comforting scent of the fireplace and faintly hear Sherlock moving around.

When he entered the apartment the first thing John noticed was a large pile of trashy magazines on the coffee table. His eyes travelled to another pile, ripped to pieces, on the desk.

Sherlock stood in front of his pinboard, carefully scrutinising a collage of magazine clippings he had arranged on it. They were assorted in a rough pyramid shape; a colourful mish mash of perfect, tanned faces and white teeth.  Intrigued, John wandered over, his eyes scanning  the photos. It didn’t take him long to realise that all the clippings were of the same thing; celebrity couples embracing, kissing and in other intimate entanglements. John stared at the pinboard for a moment before it clicked in his mind.

_One photo. This was the photo. A photo of them. A photo of them in a compromising position._

So Sherlock hadn’t thought of a new plan at all, he was still trying to get the faux couple idea to work. John groaned inwardly. There was no way of changing the detective’s mind now. Once he was set on a plan, he had to see it through. It almost became an obsession for him, a riddle to be solved. John wondered if this was becoming more than just getting cases now.  Was it a new game for Sherlock to play? Something to pass the time?  Or, perhaps, John pondered, was Sherlock trying to prove to the world that he could be in a relationship? That he wasn’t a freak?

He stood with is back to John, not registering his presence, his concentration fixed on the photos.

John cleared his throat. "Had a busy day then?"

"Mmm." Sherlock glanced briefly at John, his eyes thoughtfully gliding over his friend’s form. "Research, John. Trying to figure out what position would be the most effective."

John flushed at his friend’s words. He glanced at a paparazzi photo of a famous couple kissing passionately on a hotel balcony. He gulped.

"And what … what have you decided?"

Sherlock gestured to the pyramid. "I have been categorising the photos from those that resulted in rumours being confirmed, to those that are still being questioned.  The ones with the best success rate at the top, the ones which are still constantly being debated over at the bottom. This couple," he pointed to a photo near the bottom of the triangle of a young pop star couple holding hands in the street, "are still being questioned over the truth of their relationship. Not good enough, there can be no doubts."

John scanned the other photos at the bottom of the pyramid. Most were of couple’s holding hands, kissing lightly. One photo made him gasp, he felt his mouth drop open. Sherlock noticed his reaction and smiled.

"That’s us!" John exclaimed. "Why is there a photo of us in a magazine?!"

The photo was a recent one, taken of the two of them in the back of a cab. Their heads were close together and they were gazing deeply into each other’s eyes.  John scanned the caption.

_"Celebrity detective Sherlock Holmes and his "live-in" assistant John Watson enjoyed a night out together. Although many have questioned the duo’s relationship, the pair deny they are lovers.This photo says otherwise."_

"That photo is taken completely out of context," John said angrily. "We were discussing a dead body!" He found he wasn’t angry about the suggestiveness of the photo, but rather the fact that their privacy was being broadcast without his consent.

Sherlock waved his hand dismissively. "Well it didn’t prove anything anyway. It wasn’t certain enough. We need to be aiming for the top half of the pyramid."

John’s eyes scanned upwards. The pictures were considerably more full on.  His eyes caught on a photo of a barely-dressed couple on a beach, the woman lying on top of a man, their arms wrapped around each other and their heads together in a deep kiss.

"I am most definitely _not_ doing that," John said pointing at it. Sherlock glanced at it quickly.

"Well of course not, John,  that was taken in Barbados. We don’t have time to go to Barbados," he said.

John put his head in his hands and stifled a laugh. He raised his head and looked up at his friend. "Sherlock have you really thought this through. I mean, are you sure you are comfortable to actually do this? Because I don’t know if I am." John hated to let his friend down, hated seeing the brilliant detective so depressed, so desperate to work, yet he had to admit that this was starting to get out of hand. What Sherlock was planning was going too far, wasn’t it?

Sherlock’s eyes snapped to John’s face. His brow furrowed in concern. "I have no other choice John. This is the only way. I can’t wait any longer, and I know this will work. Being in a relationship, especially a minority relationship will humanise me in the eyes of the public. They will be on my side."

"Yes I know that, but what I mean, is that are you comfortable in doing that," he pointed to the photo of the couple on the beach, "with me? I mean, you’re not exactly a touchy feely kind of person, and that is pretty intimate."

"I will do what is necessary when the time comes," Sherlock replied simply, his eyes continued to search the board, seemingly looking for something in particular.

As John looked at the photo of the beach pair an image flashed into his mind. Instead of the couple, it was him and Sherlock pressed together, bare chested, dripping wet, arms wrapped around each other, their mouths locked in a deep kiss. If it had been any other man John wouldn’t have felt anything, but this was Sherlock Holmes, and no one in the world was like him, he surpassed gender. John found himself wondering if Sherlock even had a sexual side, if he ever lay in bed at night thinking about then sensation of another person’s hands on him. He was like a perfectly untarnished gem, John decided, precious and untouched by the complications of sex. 

He cleared his throat and found he couldn’t look at Sherlock.

The detective was closely studying a photo at the top of the chart. He whipped out his phone and tapped away at it for a minute before exclaiming, "Ah ha! I think we have it John!"

Sherlock snapped his phone shut and smiled triumphantly. "The perfect photo.  All it took was this one photo and the couple were forced to reveal their relationship. No doubts surrounded it, there was no way out for them, no other explanations.  Now they are married, living happily and both their careers skyrocketed after the photo was published."

John took a deep breath and readied himself. "So, which photo is it then?"

Sherlock grinned and pointed to the picture on the very top of the pyramid. "That one."

John stared at it with wide eyes and gulped.

He was in trouble now.

　

　

　


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thanks everyone for reading. This is an old work I am finally finishing off. Enjoy :)

The problem with the photo was that it wasn’t a photo at all, but rather a series of grainy stills from an obvious homemade sex tape.  John stared at them, his mouth hanging open. He knew Sherlock was naïve in many ways, but surely he knew a blatant sex tape when he saw one.

“Er, Sherlock, are you sure that’s the one you want? I mean … well, that’s a video.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “Yes of course it’s a video. I have thought about this John.” He started pacing the room, his hand animated. “These days photos can so easily be Photoshopped, edited, taken out of context. Over half the photos on this board aren’t real, and they fooled you. If we want to do this properly it has to be video. It has to be!”

Sherlock was getting himself worked up, anxiety etched over his face. John saw the pain in his eyes, the determination of a desperate man. Worried about his friend’s blood pressure, John went to him and grabbed his arm, forcing him to stand still.

“It’s ok Sherlock. I will help you. I’m sure we can work this out. I just want you to stop and think carefully about the ramifications of this,” John took a deep breath. “Do you honestly want people to think that you are in love with _me_?” He chose his words carefully, putting the emphasis on the word ‘me’. No matter his sexual preference, or his taste in partners,  John knew that Sherlock Holmes, the genius, was too good for him.

Sherlock looked at him with utter confusion. “I don’t understand.”

“Well, “ John shrugged, “I’m just John Watson. You’re Sherlock Holmes.”

Anger flashed across Sherlock’s usually impervious features.

“Stop it!” Sherlock yelled. “Don’t say that. Why would you say that?” He threw his hands in the air and began pacing the room again.

“Why are you so angry?” John asked.

Sherlock stopped pacing and turned to John, squeezing his eyes closed for a second as if struck by a sharp pain. He took a deep breath. 

“John, there is no one in the world that I trust as much as I do you, and it is because of that trust, this partnership we have, that I have a way out of the darkness. Without you, I wouldn’t be me. I would be lost. So please don’t doubt yourself. You have no idea how important you are,” he cleared his throat, “… to me.”

John had never in his life heard Sherlock talk so openly, so emotionally about anything.

“Oh, well, thank you,” he cleared his throat. “I just want to help you, that’s all I have ever wanted really. It’s what makes me happiest.”

Sherlock stared at John, his face once again impassive and unreadable. He nodded, his hands clasped behind his back, his anger long forgotten. “Good. Now, let’s get started planning shall we?”

It turns out that the “planning” was basically all taken care of. John wasn’t surprised that Sherlock had mapped out their every move. They were to check in to a ritzy hotel the next evening while it was still light. The hotel room Sherlock had picked had a balcony that was easily spotted from the street. He had purchased a decent video camera and tripod and arranged their schedule.  As Sherlock explained more and more in detail of the plan, John found he could no longer hold back on the overwhelming issue that was taking over his brain. He found deep down that he had never really expected the plan to get this far, and had really, mostly just been humouring Sherlock until another idea presented itself, or Sherlock backed out, or Lestrade rang up with a case. So far none of those things had happened, and it didn’t look like they were going to any time soon.  It was time to say something.

“Sherlock, stop for a second,” he said, trying to find a gap in his friend’s unending monologue that he could fill. Sherlock paused mid-sentence and turned to him.

John took a deep breath. “Sherlock, you know I want to help you, and I’m always up for an adventure, but I honestly cannot make a sex tape with you. For one, I’m straight and am NOT going to have sex with you, and secondly, even if I did, I would not want it filmed for the world to see!”

Sherlock smirked. “Don’t be stupid John; we’re not actually going to make a sex tape.”

John heaved a sigh of relief.

“No,” Sherlock continued, “we’re just going to make it look like we have.”

 

* * *

 

John poured himself a large scotch as Sherlock flittered around the hotel room, rearranging furniture, adjusting the camera and testing the lighting. It was almost amusing watching how seriously he was taking it. John smiled and helped himself to another large portion of scotch. He didn’t usually drink so much, but he felt on this occasion he needed it. He couldn’t believe Sherlock had talked him into this. There really was something wrong with him, John thought to himself. He decided he should probably start seeing his shrink again.

“Ok. The stage is set.” Sherlock stood back and surveyed his handiwork. He pulled out the photos from the magazine and compared them with the hotel room. “Yes, this is how it should look. The pillows will be piled under you here, the blankets covering us here, but then falling as we move to the couch, and then the desk,” Sherlock stated as if he were mapping out a crime scene.

John topped up his drink once more. His brain was beginning to become blurred by the scotch. He felt his inhibitions and worries begin to slip away. He peeled off his jumper and tossed it aside.

“Alright,” he clapped his hands together in readiness, revving himself up. “What now?”

Sherlock shrugged off his jacket and hung it in the cupboard.

“Pour me a glass of scotch.”

“Really?” John asked. His companion rarely drank.

Sherlock glared at him until he poured him a generous glass of the dark liquid. He drank it in a few large gulps.

“One more. Then we start,” Sherlock said as he held his glass out for a refill.

John didn’t question him and poured another large glass. He was fascinated by the sudden change in the detective’s demeanour. He had seemed so calm a minute ago, but that had shifted, now he seemed nervous and perhaps a bit scared.

“It’s not too late to change your mind Sherlock.”

The comment seemed to bolster Sherlock into confidence. He set down his empty glass and began taking off his shoes. John sat on the edge of the bed and began stripping too. The door was locked, the curtains closed, the camera switched off. It was just the two of them, for the moment. John was feeling alright with it so far, the alcohol in his system muffling the voices in his head. However, he was not looking forward to the moment when they would invite the world in to their private life. He shrugged that thought away as he peeled off his socks and started unbuttoning his shirt. He glanced up at his friend. Sherlock stood stock still; his hands paused on the first button of his shirt. His eyes were wide, unblinking.

“What’s wrong?” John asked, standing up and walking over to him.

“I … I don’t know. I’m trying to emotionally distance myself from this, but it’s … difficult,” he said, gazing down at John.

John saw a new fear in Sherlock’s eyes, not the usual frustration that boredom brings, but a new stress. This experience was something foreign to the detective that he didn’t know how to deal with. John knew what it was.

“Sherlock, it’s ok. This is your first time having any sort of intimacy with another person. It’s fine to be scared, everyone is.”

Sherlock didn’t move, his hands remained on his top button. John gently took them and moved them to Sherlock’s sides. He took a deep, steadying breath and slowly, so as not to startle him, undid Sherlock’s top button.

“We will take things slowly. You just remember why we are doing this. What it will mean in the long run,” John tried to reassure his friend, but Sherlock remained stiff.  “Just imagine the look on Anderson’s face when he finds out.” The comment drew a slight smile from Sherlock. John smiled back and moved his hand down to the next button on Sherlock’s shirt.

“Do you mind if I …?” He asked. Sherlock stiffly shook his head.

John took a step closer to his friend and undid the next button. He was becoming well aware that he was now forced into the position of leading this show for as long as Sherlock remained in his catatonic state. He wished there was some way he could melt his friend.

A thought occurred to him.

“I think we should, uh, kiss now. Ease the tension a bit,” John said briskly.

Sherlock’s eyes flickered down to John’s face and he nodded.  “Yes, good idea,” he said quietly, deeply.

They both stood paused, waiting for the other to make the first move. This lasted for almost a full minute until John had had enough.

“Oh for goodness sake!” He exclaimed, before grabbing Sherlock and pulling him close.

 It was the most awkward kiss of John’s life, and that included his first fumbling kiss as a 14 year old schoolboy on the brink of puberty.

 He moved his hands to the back of Sherlock’s neck, and leaned upward, quickly bringing their lips together before either of them could overthink the situation.  Sherlock’s hands automatically came up to John’s chest, pushing him away slightly for a brief second, before relaxing and falling to his sides.

John had never kissed a man before, and the dissimilarities took him by surprise.  For one, he had to lean upwards to make up for the height difference. He wasn’t sure he liked that. The softness of a woman was replaced by Sherlock’s broad, lightly muscled shoulders. The gentle scent of Sherlock’s aftershave and hair gel filled his nose instead of perfume and hairspray.  He found he didn’t mind that, it smelt comforting and familiar.

John noted that Sherlock clearly had no idea what he was doing. He didn’t know where to put his hands, he didn’t know what to do with his mouth, so his hands remained at his sides and his lips remained closed. John could see they weren’t getting anywhere, but Sherlock felt a little more relaxed.

He pulled away from Sherlock and cocked his eyebrow at his friend.

“That was rubbish,” he said.

“Was it?” Sherlock exclaimed, clearly taken aback over the fact that he had failed in something.

John laughed. “Yes, that was barely a kiss. It was two people pressing their mouths together.”

Sherlock looked confused. “Isn’t that what a kiss is?”

“Dear god no. How can you not … nevermind. We will try again. And this time, put your hands on my sides and open your mouth.”

Sherlock stared at him for a second. “It doesn’t sound very hygienic.”

John rolled his eyes. Kissing Sherlock would be a breeze compared to simply dealing with him.

“Sherlock, you handle dead bodies on a daily basis, I think you can deal with this.”

The consulting detective took a step to the side, grabbed his glass and poured himself another drink. He paused for a moment, and then filled his and John’s glasses to the brim.

“One more. Then we start,” he said.

“That’s what you said before,” John whipped back.

“Shut up.”

They finished their drinks in silence. Sherlock switched the video camera on and pointed it towards the bed. It was time for the show to begin.

 


	7. Chapter 7

They were both drunk and they knew it. Not blindingly drunk, but buzzed enough that neither were thinking logically. They stared at each other wide eyed both contemplating their next move, when there was a knock at the door. Sherlock frowned and went to answer it, accidentally flinging the door open with more force than necessary. A hotel staff member stood in the hall, holding a large, covered gift basket.

“For Sherlock Holmes and Doctor John Watson,” he said handing them the basket. He gave them a curious look, then turned and left, leaving Sherlock holding the mystery basket.

Sherlock slammed the door shut and carried the basket to the table, frowning at it like it was a dangerous weapon.

“Stand back John, we don’t know what this could be.”

John pointed to a card affixed to its side. “That might give us a clue.”

Sherlock snatched the card and tore it from its envelope. He flipped it open, skim read it, tore it up and threw it in the bin. Sherlock answered John’s unasked question.

“Mycroft. He knows we’re up to something.”

John glanced at the covered basket. He was dying to know what was in it.

“What did the card say?”

Sherlock waved a hand. “Mycroft nonsense. Something about how he is so glad we finally came to our senses, or something like that. He is toying with us.”

“How does he know we’re here?” John quizzed. The thought that Mycroft could potentially be watching them was more than unnerving.

“CCTV, the usual spies he has follow me, word of mouth. He has his ways.” Sherlock walked over to the basket and studied it for a moment before pulling the concealing wrapping off it.

John let out a choking laugh when the basket’s contents were revealed, for it was stacked to the brim with sex toys, condoms, lube, handcuffs, whips, masks, as well as a few items John didn’t recognise. He smiled inwardly at Mycroft’s warped sense of humour.

Sherlock however, was not amused.

“What is all this?” he demanded, peering into the basket. He pulled out a pair of handcuffs and a bottle of anal lube and studied them critically, puzzlement clearly etched over his face.

John couldn’t suppress his giggle and it soon turned into a laugh. The sight of Sherlock standing there in his perfectly pressed suit and immaculate grooming while holding a pair of handcuffs and bottle of lube was far too much to handle, especially after half a bottle of scotch. John clasped his side, his laughter almost becoming painful.

Sherlock looked extremely annoyed.

“John, grow up!” Sherlock snapped, his cheeks tinged red.

John steadied his breathing and righted himself.

“Alright, alright. I’m sorry. But you have to admit, your brother has a wicked sense of humour.”

Sherlock seethed at the remark.

“My brother is trying to embarrass me, as he always does. I will not be a part of his game!”

John grabbed Sherlock and pulled him to sit on the edge of the bed with him. The men stumbled a little in their drunken state, Sherlock lurching forward and almost knocking John backwards. They righted themselves and sat side by side. John noticed Sherlock was still clutching the lube and handcuffs. He took them from his hands and placed them on the side table.

“We won’t be needing them,” he said as he suddenly remembered what they were here to do. He wanted to keep the boundaries very clear for the both of them – this was all pretend.

Sherlock remained silent, swaying slightly on the bed. John looked at him closely. He really was an other-worldly looking person, but not in a bad way, John decided. More like a beautiful wild animal. Something you would observe and admire, but never touch. Maybe it was the alcohol talking, but John felt an overwhelming pang of love for his best friend. He wanted to help him so badly.

“Ok, Sherlock. Are you ready to try this again?”

Sherlock nodded and confidently unbuttoned two more of his shirt buttons like a knight donning his helmet and preparing for battle. John smiled.

“I’m going to kiss you now,” John said and leaned in.

“Wait!” Sherlock cried.

“What?!” John sat back, alarmed.

“Aren’t you going to undo your shirt buttons too?” Sherlock asked, his eyes skimming down John’s shirt at the offending buttons. John laughed and undid his top four buttons to match Sherlock.

“Better?”

“Much.”

Before he could open it to say anything else, John leaned forward and pressed his lips to Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock froze again, but John was determined to make him thaw. He moved closer to him, which was difficult in their sitting position. So John leaned back on the bed, pulling Sherlock on top of him. It was awkward, he couldn’t deny that fact, but the pure absurdity of it kept John going. He was kissing Sherlock Holmes, and the camera was tracking the proof of it.

“Jawhhn,” Sherlock tried to say through their lips. John pulled back, gazing up at his friend, who was sprawled on top of him.

“You’re … stronger than I anticipated,” Sherlock said simply.

John rolled his eyes. “Concentrate Sherlock.”

He grabbed his friend and rolled him over, pinning him underneath him.

“This time when I kiss you, you have to open your mouth,” John said.

“Fine,” Sherlock drawled in a bored voice.

John pressed his lips once again to Sherlock’s, but this time he tilted his head to the side and gently worked his friend’s lips open. When he had managed to accomplish that, he worked his tongue slightly into Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock soon got the message and opened his mouth wider, his own lips and tongue working with John’s. They moved together like a well-oiled machine, Sherlock picking up on John’s queues and trying some experiments of his own. John kept the kiss calm and basic, their bodies close, but not quite touching and their hands resting beside each other. 

However, the army doctor was surprised. He had never in his wildest dreams imagined that he would enjoy kissing Sherlock so much. The thought occurred to him that this was probably the best kiss of his life. Sherlock was quickly gaining confidence too. He rolled John onto his back, for the first time taking charge of the situation. Sherlock gazed down at his friend. There was something in Sherlock’s eyes that John couldn’t read, like the detective was suddenly realising something. His eyes were so blue, so clear. They scanned over John’s face, taking him in. He then lay flat against John, chest-to-chest, and wrapped his hands around the back of his head, pulling John into a crushing kiss. It was the most intense one so far. Their bodies entwined together, their pulses racing and the heat between them growing red hot. John moaned and Sherlock kissed him harder.

Thinking back on it later, John would realise that this was the moment when everything changed. It had evolved from being merely a stunt, to being so much more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Looks like they may need those handcuffs and lube after all. *Wink*


	8. Chapter 8

John groggily woke up to a cracking headache. He moaned and threw an arm over his eyes, shielding himself from the unwelcome light spilling into the room. _Why was it so light in his room?_ He blindly reached over to his bedside table, searching for the glass of water he always kept there. His hand groped at nothing. He groaned and rolled over, pulling the sheet with him. _Sheet?_   _Since when did his bed have a sheet on it?_ On second thoughts, the bed didn’t feel like his bed at 221B at all.As he slowly opened his eyes and let his mind awaken, he remembered.

He wasn’t in his bed on Baker street. He held his breath and rolled over slowly; waiting for what he knew would be there.

And it was.

Sherlock Holmes lay sprawled out on his stomach on the bed next to him, naked, the crisp white sheet barely covering his lower half. John froze, he stilled his mind, not letting it search for the hazy memories of last night that he knew were sitting locked up in his subconscious. His eyes raked over his companion’s form, taking in how his smooth white skin and tousled dark curls looked against the stark whiteness of the hotel sheets. He then noticed that one of Sherlock’s hands was handcuffed to the bedpost. A scene flashed into his mind.

_Sherlock was sitting on the bed, a look of drunken bewilderment on his face. John picked up the cuffs, confidently strode over to the bed and straddled him._

_“I bet I can make you come before you can get out of these handcuffs.”_

John scrambled out of the bed in a panic.

“Shit shit shit shit,” he muttered.  “Ohgodohgodohgod. This can’t be happening.”

He quietly searched the room for his clothes, the panic rising in him. He had to get out of there, fast, before Sherlock woke up. He needed air.  He pulled his clothes on, ignoring the stickiness of his skin, thumping headache and various points of throbbing pain in his body. He grabbed his phone, wallet and keys and left the hotel room. He paused for a second outside the door. If it had been a woman he was leaving behind after just sleeping with them, he would be wracked with guilt. He felt no guilt now, just blind terror.

He needed a coffee. He left the hotel and found the closest café. It was almost empty, which gave John the choice of a relatively private table tucked away in the corner. He ordered a large coffee and sat staring at it, trying to make sense of the previous night in his head. How had things gotten so out of control so fast?

He took a deep breath and tried to quiet his mind. Everything will be ok, he told himself, you and Sherlock got drunk and carried away. It’s not the end of the world. They had after all, been through so much together, surly they could just chalk this up as another experiment?

He began to feel a little calmer. The peace of the café and the hot coffee were soothing. He took a few more deep, steadying breaths and tried to decide what he should do next. He knew he had to talk to Sherlock, find out what he thought about what happened and how they could move on from it, but the idea of facing him was too much at the moment.

His mind drifted to the thought of the great detective.  John wondered if Sherlock had woken up yet and if he remembered what had happened between them. A dozen thoughts flooded his head. How was Sherlock justifying it to himself?  Was he trying to make excuses? Blame it on alcohol and a plan that got out of hand? Or was he reading so much more into it? Examining and combing through every scrap of evidence and deducing god knows what? Or, John thought with a surprising pang of sadness that he chose to bury, was Sherlock deleting it all? Expelling it from his hard drive so it was a memory John would be left to deal with by himself.

No. John shook his head. He wouldn’t do that.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out and stared at the screen, seeing the words but taking a lot longer to register them.

_Where are you? - SH_

Before he could think of a reply, the phone buzzed again.

_Don’t you dare leave him alone any longer. If you cared for him (as I know you do) you would go back to that hotel room right now. (Also, I do hope you boys had a fun night with my gift basket.)  -MH_

John glared into the air around him, hoping that whatever CCTV camera that Mycroft was watching him on would see. His phone buzzed.

_Stop glaring at me and get a move on. He is waiting. - MH_

John was tempted to take his time in an effort to not let Mycroft push him around, but the idea of Sherlock sitting alone in the hotel room, wondering why John had fled in such a rush (he certainly would have deduced that) made him feel strangely heartbroken. Now the panic had left him, John realised that flying out the hotel had not been a very sensitive move after such an … intimate night.

As John rose from the table, another image flashed into his mind, causing him to stumble and almost spill the remains of his coffee.

_He was lying underneath Sherlock, their naked bodies entwined together in a warm haze. Sherlock, for some reason John couldn’t remember, was wearing a police hat and holding a riding crop. Gifts from Mycroft’s basket, of course._

_Sherlock rolled off John and grabbed a bottle of wine, taking a deep swig. He passed it to John._

_“Now Jawwnnn,” he slurred and pointed to his hat proudly, “I’m the detective inspector, where’s the crime scene? I need to inspect a body! And if you can’t find me one, I will have you inspect yours!” He smacked the whip in his hand._

John somehow managed to remember to put one foot in front of the other as he left the café. He didn’t know what he was more shocked about, the fact that he had seemingly spent the night with a man, or that that man had been Sherlock Holmes. The whole idea was so preposterous he could barely accept it actually happened. Role playing with Sherlock, handcuffing Sherlock - what the hell else had they gotten up to? John was torn between being terrified of knowing, and strangely curious at what he could have possibly known to do in bed with a man, especially a man like Sherlock.

He made his way back to the hotel quickly, not realising until he got to the foyer that he had been holding his breath almost the whole walk back. He let it out in a large gasp. He put his head down and strolled past the reception desk, not daring to make eye contact with anyone. There was no way they could know, but he felt like he had a large flashing sign above him that read ‘I spent all last night having freaky gay sex with my best friend! And I’m actually straight!’

He let out a short burst of laughter, which he quickly covered with a cough. He hopped in the lift, and a young couple entered after him. They were laughing and holding each other close, softly kissing each other’s faces. John closed his eyes as another memory hit him.

_Sherlock was leaning over the desk, tapping his fingers on the surface in annoyance. John was standing behind him, trying to keep his balance as he squirted a copious amount of lube onto himself._

_“Are you doing it?” Sherlock demanded._

_“Hang on a second!” John snapped back._

_“Have you done it yet?”_

_John slapped Sherlock hard across his arse. “I will do YOU if you don’t shut up!”_

_Sherlock smiled smugly. “Well, surely that’s the idea John?”_

_John positioned himself behind his friend. “Deep breath Sherlock, you’re about to lose your virginity, and it’s not going to be comfortable.”_

John was brought crashing back to reality as the elevator door tinged open. The young couple had already hopped off at a previous floor. He hadn’t even noticed. He was still trying to wrap his mind around the vision he had just had.

_Keep calm John, you don’t know what happened next, or if it was even real. Maybe you just had a string of extremely realistic dreams._

Part of him knew that he was lying to himself, but at that moment it was all he had. They had both been so ridiculously drunk there was no way to know for certain what had happened. At least that’s what John thought, until he entered their hotel room.

Sherlock was sitting in a chair in front of the TV, the remote gripped firmly in his hand. At first John thought he was simply watching porn, and then he caught sight of his own face on the TV screen.

Of course, the video camera. How could he have forgotten about the damn video camera?


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading :)

“DON’T WATCH THAT!” John found himself screeching.

He launched at Sherlock and tried to prise the remote control from his firm grip, but Sherlock wouldn’t let go.

“Sherlock! Let. Go. Of. The. Damn. Remote!” John struggled in vain as the video continued to play. Sherlock just sat rigidly, staring over John’s shoulder at their home movie.

John dared a glance at it and had to do a double take at what he was seeing. Once he started watching, he found he could not look away at the bizarre scene that was unfolding on the screen. He dropped Sherlock’s hand and slumped to the floor.

_Sherlock was standing on the bed, dressed in an extremely tight policeman’s costume, and holding a riding crop, while John lay at his feet, wearing a revealing military costume._

_“John you’re not playing properly! I’m the detective inspector and you’re the serial killer.” Sherlock pointed the end of his crop at John._

_“I’m not a serial killer, I’m a war hero!” John snapped back, waving his hand over his uniform._

_“Yes, a war hero who is irreparably damaged by battle and has gone on a killing spree across London,” Sherlock said as he stepped off the bed._

_“Now,” Sherlock said turning to face John, his eyes slowly moving over his body. “I am the law, how should I punish you?”_

_John knelt up on the bed and started to peel off his camo shirt. “Well, officer, I think I need a good whipping.”_

As TV John began to take off his shirt, real life John leapt up and pulled the TV’s cord from the power socket. The screen immediately went black. Sherlock sat silent and rigid in his chair, still staring at the blank screen. John couldn’t stop shaking. With a deep breath, he pulled himself together and went to get a glass of water in an effort to calm himself and also to get away from the TV screen.

He filled his glass, paused for a second, then filled a second glass and placed it next to Sherlock. He then sat on the edge of the bed, wincing slightly at some mysterious pains in his hungover body.

They sat in silence for a few minutes before Sherlock spoke, his deep voice taking over the room.

“You left,” he said.

“I panicked,” John replied.

“But you came back.”

“Of course.”

Sherlock slowly turned to face him. “Why did that happen last night?”

John looked into his friend’s eyes. They held a strange vulnerability in them, a look of confusion. This was one case Sherlock could not solve.

“I … I don’t know,” John answered honestly. “Alcohol?”

Sherlock shook his head. “It was my fault John. I let things progress too far because I didn’t understand what was happening. I couldn’t separate the real from the pretend.”

John left the bed and crouched down in front of him, taking his hands in his own.

“It doesn’t matter Sherlock. We don’t need to talk about it. We can just delete the movie from your camera and forget about it all.”

A look of panic crossed over Sherlock’s face.

“But I need it as evidence!”

John was gobsmacked. After everything that had happened between them, Sherlock was still only thinking about his bloody cases. He gritted his teeth and stood up, anger boiling inside him.

“I can’t believe that after what happened last night, it’s still all just about your stupid cases! I don’t know about you, but that was a pretty life-changing night for me!” he shouted at a stunned Sherlock.

“But John, the triple murder weapon can’t be a cricket bat like Lestrade thinks because …” he started before John cut him off.

“Shut up about your damn case, shut up about Lestrade! You just don’t get it do you?” John was close to tearing his hair out in frustration.  He gave his friend a hard stare. “Did last night mean absolutely nothing to you?”

He hated asking the clichéd question, but he had to know the truth. He had to know if Sherlock could register on any level that what had happened was significant to John. He continued to hold Sherlock’s gaze, not letting his eyes drop from their icy stare. John searched them deeply for an answer, a shred of emotion, anything really. Sherlock simply gave him a blank look. John took that as a resounding ‘no’.

“Well that’s just great then Sherlock. Once again I am astonished at your lack of any sort of human qualities. I’m afraid The Case of Humanising Sherlock Holmes has failed spectacularly.”

John grabbed his night bag and stormed into the bathroom, desperate for a shower to scrub every trace of last night off him.

After John left, Sherlock sat frozen for a minute. He then got up and retrieved his camera. He quickly copied the video onto a usb, then deleted it off the camera. He placed the usb in a small, silk pouch and tucked it safely in his suitcase. He then gathered all the rest of his scattered belongings and neatly placed them in his case. As he was about to zip it up, he spotted the handcuffs, whip and costumes lying in a pile next to the bed. He quickly scooped them all up and dumped them in his luggage too.

He left without saying a word to John.

* * *

 

John waited until the hotel’s shower was as hot as he could handle, then stepped in. He grabbed a bar of soap and rubbed furiously at his body. He didn’t even know why he was so angry at Sherlock. Of course the whole thing had originally been about getting him back to work, but surely, even someone like Sherlock, despite his robot-like traits, would register what was a ground-breaking night. John didn’t know what reaction he had hoped for from the consulting detective - anger, denial, terror, confusion, lust – anything would have been better than blatant nonchalance.

_But why was he watching the tape?_ A voice in the back of John’s mind questioned. The answered it straight away. _To analyse the stupid damn video to see if it is good enough to prove to the whole goddamn world that we are a bloody couple. What a stupid plan that was._

John huffed and stepped out of the shower, grabbing the closest towel to him. As he stood in front of the mirror drying himself off, he noticed a row of blotches running across his collarbone and down his chest. Hickeys. They were a face-slapping indication of what had happened the previous night. It suddenly struck John that Sherlock Holmes had been so driven by passion that he had left the evidence smattered across his body. For one night, a person as brilliant and remote as Sherlock had desired John enough that he was compelled to attack him with such lustful force he had left a mark.

John ran his fingers over them in wonderment, there were so many.

 He raised his eyes to meet his own reflection’s gaze staring back at him in the mirror.

He was smiling.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sexy times! Ridiculous, drunken, silly sexy time!  
> :)

It was while staring at the hickeys across his body that John’s mind finally gave in and let the drawbridge down. He remembered everything. Every moment, every lick, kiss, thrust, suck and smack. The memories that were so tightly tucked away in his subconscious now flooded his mind. He remembered the pain, the pleasure and the bizarre beauty of Sherlock Holmes. He also remembered that it had been the best night of his life.

It had started in a wild display of drunken passion as Sherlock pinned John underneath him, pressing their bodies together and kissing him more deeply than he had ever been kissed before.  John felt like he would drown in Sherlock. His skin, his hands, his mouth – they were overwhelming him. It was like a lifetime of celibacy was finally unravelling the detective, and John was getting the full brunt of it.

“Stop for a second,” he gasped, pulling away from Sherlock’s crushing embrace. “Time out Sherlock!” He rolled out from under him and sat on the edge of the bed, breathing hard. Sherlock looked annoyed.

“You have changed your mind?” Sherlock stood up, tall and proud. His shirt was unbuttoned and his hair ruffled.

“No! I just need another drink!” John opened the mini fridge and pulled out a beer. Sherlock rolled his eyes, so John handed him a bottle of wine. “Drink that my friend.”

John found himself drawn to the gift basket from Mycroft and begun digging through it.

“Here’s a riding crop Sherlock. That must be for you. These handcuffs too I bet. They look like proper ones too, not the cheap fluffy ones that are easy to get out of.” He threw the gifts over to Sherlock, who looked at them thoughtfully.

John resumed his digging, pulling out piles of flavoured condoms and butt plugs until he found …

“Oh!” He exclaimed in delight, holding up two large packets. “Mycroft you clever bastard!”

He handed one of the parcels to Sherlock and ripped open his one in delight.

“A soldier uniform for me, a police uniform for you.”  A thought occurred to him and he frowned.

“Why not a doctor’s outfit for me?” He pondered.

 “A soldier is sexier,” Sherlock answered simply, then froze as if he hadn’t actually meant to verbalise the thought.

“Oh yeah?” John raised an eyebrow. “We shall see about that then!”

He ducked into the bathroom, coming about a few minutes later dressed in his new chest-bearing faux Army camos. Sherlock had changed too. John’s breath caught in his throat. He had never seen his friend in anything other than his pyjamas or his suit. In the sexy police outfit he could admire the long, lean lines of Sherlock’s form.  He particularly liked the way the hat sat crookedly on Sherlock’s curls.

The men stared at each other.

Sherlock cleared his throat. “You, uh, you look … nice.”

“I feel like Magic Mike,” John replied.

Sherlock just stared at him blankly.

“Nevermind,” John said, and then his expression hardened. “Enough talk.”

John’s eyes darkened with lust and he strode towards Sherlock, grabbing him around the waist.

He pushed Sherlock back towards the bed. They toppled backward in a clash of limbs, ending side-by-side, entangled in a deep kiss. They wrestled for a few minutes, each trying to take the dominate role. They were closely matched in strength, so the fight was futile. They broke apart, glaring at each other.

“I don’t know what happens next,” John said. “I mean, with a woman it’s easy, but with you…”

Sherlock drunkenly waved the comment aside. It’s simple. “I’m the detective inspector John, you have to take my orders.”

John’s eyes widened.

“Um, no, this fake insignia on my uniform tells me I am a Major, therefor completely outranking you.”

Sherlock’s eyes lit up with another idea.

“You’re a serial killer then!”

“No. I’m. Not.”

Sherlock stood up on the bed, towering over John. He held the riding crop firmly in his hands, gently bending it. John couldn’t take his eyes off the way the way the costume clung to his friend’s firm body.  He surprised himself by wondering what was underneath it.

 “John you’re not playing properly! I’m the detective inspector and you’re the serial killer.” Sherlock pointed the end of his crop at John.

“I’m not a serial killer, I’m a war hero!” John snapped back, waving a hand over his uniform.

“Yes, a war hero who is irreparably damaged by battle and has gone on a killing spree across London,” Sherlock said as he stepped off the bed.

“Now,” Sherlock said turning to face John, his eyes slowly moving over his body. “I am the law, how should I punish you?”

John knelt up on the bed and started to peel off his camo shirt. “Well, officer, I think I need a good whipping.”

He threw his shirt aside and knelt on the bed. Sherlock’s eyes scanned over him, pausing and softening for a second at the bullet wound on his shoulder.

Sherlock got back on the bed, gave John a hard, cold look before pushing him over so he was lying flat on his stomach. Sherlock then climbed onto John’s back, making any sort of escape impossible.

John could feel the unmistakable bulge of Sherlock’s erection pressing into the small of his back and was momentarily dazed that he of all people could elicit such a response from The Great Detective.

It was incredibly arousing.

“Sherlock, get off me!” he demanded, slightly panicked at the bizarre turn the night was beginning to take.

“Why?” Sherlock answered.

“You don’t know what you’re doing! I don’t know if what, what, this thing we’re doing…” John tried to verbalise his thoughts, but his tongue was tied up and his brain was drunkenly foggy. He shook his head in an attempt to clear it and finally spat out his thought.

“Are we even still pretending?”

Sherlock was silent for a brief second. He leaned down, placing his lips against John’s ear in a slightly menacing gesture, and whispered in his deep, reverberating voice. “No.”

The quiet, demanding tone of his friend’s voice sent a shiver through John’s body and straight to his groin. He felt himself harden instantly.

“Well, if that’s how it’s going to be, I’m going to do this right,” John said defiantly, pushing Sherlock off his back and then pinning him to the bed. He grasped Sherlock’s long, slender hands and held them up over his head, kissing him deeply. John was shirtless, but Sherlock was still fully dressed in his costume. The two seemed to come up with the conclusion that this wasn’t good enough at the same time. In a quick motion, John whipped off Sherlock’s faux police shirt, then his hands dropped to the detective’s waist and shoved down the waistband of his costume. At the same time, Sherlock’s hands slid down John’s back to grasp his hips, pulling the two agonisingly close together. His hands slipped under John’s pants, hesitated, and then pushed them off. It had only taken them a matter of seconds to get each other completely naked.

Well, almost naked.  John left the policeman’s hat perched crookedly on Sherlock’s curls.

Both men stopped pawing each other for a full minute to make sure they got a good look at their lover’s body. Sherlock was impressed with John’s battle-hardened yet inviting frame, and John was mesmerised by Sherlock’s long legs, long torso, long arms, long fingers, and yes, long cock.

Entwined in heated nakedness, the two men suddenly faltered in unison. It was a split second of stark soberness as they looked into each other’s eyes. They were both momentarily overwhelmed by the situation and saw each other more clearly than they ever had before.

Sherlock saw John beneath him, and a thousand images flashed through his brilliant mind. When he first met John, going to his first crime scene with John, John telling him he was brilliant, John strapped to a bomb telling him to run, John making him tea, John making him laugh, John’s smile, John’s laugh, John’s eyes and John’s touch. 

And John saw Sherlock above him and only one image entered his mind. Sitting alone in his small, dark hotel room the night before he met Sherlock and the dull, empty feeling that no longer haunted him.

The moment was over in a heartbeat and the drunken haze settled back over the pair.

Sherlock rolled off John and grabbed the bottle of wine, taking a deep swig. He passed it to John.

“Now Jawwnnn,” he slurred and pointed to his hat proudly, “I’m the detective inspector, where’s the crime scene? I need to inspect a body! And if you can’t find me one, I will have to inspect yours!” He smacked the whip in his hand.

John giggled and pulled the bedsheets over his chest so he was covered completely.

“Oh no you don’t!” Sherlock said as he whipped back the sheet, leaving John exposed.

He stared at John’s naked form for a second, temporarily stunned into silence at the vision in front of him. He then launched himself at John.

John, thinking quickly despite his drunken state, rolled out of the way to avoid being crushed by 6+ foot of lust-filled flying detective.

“Sherlock! Are you trying to kill me? You need to be restrained!”

He quickly searched the room before he spotted exactly what he was looking for. With Sherlock’s eyes mesmerised by his arse, John was able to grab the handcuffs and keep them from Sherlock’s view as he made his way back to the bed.

John had Sherlock right where he wanted him. He kissed him deeply, and pressed him back so he was lying in the pillows. The new sensations of drunkenness and lust were obviously taking their toll on the genius detective as he had a clear expression of bewilderment on his face. John straddled him, their naked groins pressing together. Sherlock looked up at John with a dazed expression, as if he couldn’t comprehend what was actually happening. John reached behind him and he heard something click. Sherlock glanced up. He was handcuffed to the bed.

John grinned at him.

“I bet I can make you come before you can get out of these handcuffs.”

Before he could retort, John quickly took Sherlock in hand and slowly, teasingly began to massage his cock. Sherlock, taken by surprise at the sudden new feeling, gasped John’s name.  

John quickened his pace. Sherlock’s eyes were scrunched closed and a sheen of sweat was beginning to glisten on his forehead. The sight was too much for John and he found himself rubbing himself too in a frantic manner.

“You’re losing the game Sherlock,” John panted, nodding up to the forgotten handcuffs.

Sherlock’s eyes snapped open and he finally begun to assess his situation. On one hand, he didn’t really want to leave his current predicament, but on the other, he didn’t want to lose the game either. He measured the tightness of the handcuffs and found the left one was slightly looser than the right. If he angled his hand and fingers a certain way, he might be able to slip out. It took all his concentration, but he was able to distance himself from John and focus on slipping out of the handcuffs. He had almost freed himself when he was brought gasping back to life as a sudden new sensation took control of his body. Gazing down, he was shocked to see John had taken him in his mouth and was, surprisingly skilfully, gliding up and down over his rock hardness.

“John, John, John I. give. Up. You win. Please… can’t… take.. .any… more!” Sherlock managed to gasp out the words.

With one last, agonisingly pleasurable swirl of his tongue, John pulled away from Sherlock, leaving him dripping with pre-cum.

Sherlock took this opportunity to slip out of the left handcuff. “I win!” He almost shouted in delight.

John stared at him open mouthed, a familiar look of amazement on his face. Sherlock felt as if he had just solved a particularly brilliant case.

“You sneaky bastard!” John reprimanded. Sherlock smiled triumphantly.

“But you haven’t won yet, you’re only halfway there. “ John said as he nodded to the other handcuff, still locking Sherlock in place on the bed.

Sherlock smirked. With his free left hand, unlocking the mechanisms on the cuffs with the right angle of leverage was simple. John didn’t know that though. He decided to see how far he could take this fortunate situation.

John moved back down Sherlock’s torso and settled himself between his legs once again. He didn’t overthink the situation, didn’t come to any sort of major epiphany as he took his best friend in his mouth. He just got on with the job. A part of him felt extremely uncomfortable with the idea of having a cock in his mouth, but that was overridden by the sense of power and control he had over the genius. It was a staggering feeling to know he could make a person like Sherlock Holmes moan, wriggle and sweat. The thought fuelled him to work harder. He tried to remember what he liked when getting blowjobs and tried to replicate it. But it didn’t seem to matter; Sherlock seemed to be enjoying everything he did.

Sherlock was temporarily distracted by the feeling of John’s mouth on him and forgot all about getting out of the final handcuff. His left hand had drifted down to John’s head and was scrunched up in his hair. With great difficulty, he pulled his mind away from the moment and concentrated on working his hand out of the handcuff. With the right amount of twisting and pressure in the exact way, he heard the familiar clink as the lock sprung free.

“Ha!” He shouted triumphantly, throwing the cuffs aside. “I win!”

Sherlock leapt off the bed in excitement and grabbed his riding crop. Before John could move, Sherlock smacked him across the arse three times in lightning-quick succession. He had sense enough to keep his grip light, as to not hurt John too much.

Completely taken by surprise by Sherlock’s action, John snatched the crop off Sherlock as he raised his arm to smack him again.

“WHAT are you doing?” John screeched.

Sherlock gave him an exasperated look.

“I was at a crime scene once where a man had been beaten with a riding crop during coitus. He had died of asphyxiation in the end, but the bruises on his …”

Sherlock stopped talking when he saw John’s wide-eyed, open-mouthed look of shock.

“Not good?” He asked.

John gaped at him. “Are you serious? You’re getting your sex tips from crime scenes Sherlock? You really are mental aren’t you?” John couldn’t help but grin with affection at his friend.

He pulled him close and tenderly kissed him on the mouth, then placed a single kiss lovingly on each of the detective’s prominent cheekbones.

Sherlock opened his mouth as if to say something, but closed it and kissed John back. They tumbled to the bed in a naked avalanche. The skin on skin friction was reigniting a fire between them. They grasped at each other’s prominent cocks, stroking in desperate passion.

Soon both men knew hands and mouths weren’t enough. They wanted go deeper, to push themselves to the very limit and disappear in each other. The desire was taking over them, and the heat and the deep yearning led them to their next actions.

John knew he was drunk and was doing it all wrong. He had nothing to go on but his many experiences with women. Anything he knew about sex with a man was from scraps of information from movies, friends and that one night he had accidentally downloaded gay porn. But what John did know was that he wanted to be inside Sherlock, desperately. He rolled Sherlock onto his front and lay over his back.

“John, what are you doing now?” Sherlock was mildly worried.

“Don’t worry, I know what I’m doing,” John lied.

“I really don’t think you do,” Sherlock said as he felt an unwelcome force trying to press inside him.

“John! Stop!” Sherlock practically yelped and pushed John off him.

“Sorry!” John said, slightly flushed with embarrassment. “Sorry, sorry Sherlock. I couldn’t help myself. You’re just … you’re just so _Sherlock._ ” John couldn’t take his eyes off his friend, who was sitting in naked glory on the bed. His hair mussed, a slight tint of red on his alabaster cheekbones and his eyes blazing. He was so perfect, John thought. How had he never realised?

He shook his head. This was no time to ponder his sexuality. He closed the space between them once more and took Sherlock’s face between his hands.

“Do you want me?” Sherlock asked him, his voice low and rumbling.

“Oh god yes,” John whispered back.

Sherlock got off the bed and made his way over to the desk, grabbing the tube of lube and throwing it to John.

“It’s time now John. Hurry up,” he said as he bent over the desk.

John stared from Sherlock to the lube container in his hand.

“Why the desk Sherlock?” he asked, “why not the bed?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Height difference John. My legs are too long for you to enter me from a comfortable first-time position on the bed, but on the desk I am able to bring myself to a better level. It’s obvious John. Do try to use your brain.”

John ignored the insult and smiled at Sherlock’s planning.

“You’ve thought about this before haven’t you Sherlock?” John asked quietly.

Sherlock turned his face away from John.

“That’s irrelevant. Now hurry up!” he started tapping his fingers on the desk in annoyance.

John positioned himself behind Sherlock. He placed a trail of light kisses down his back, taking note of the fine muscles and prominent backbone of his companion. John was more than ready. He squirted a liberal amount of lube on his fingers, gently working them inside Sherlock, loosening him up. He then coated his cock in lube and took a deep breath.

 “Are you doing it?” Sherlock demanded.

“Hang on a second!” John snapped back.

“Have you done it yet?”

John slapped Sherlock hard across his arse. “I will do YOU if you don’t shut up!”

Sherlock smiled smugly. “Well, surely that’s the idea John?”

John positioned himself behind his friend. “Deep breath Sherlock, you’re about to lose your virginity, and it’s not going to be comfortable.”

In his drunken state, John wasn’t as graceful or gentle as he perhaps should have been. As he entered Sherlock, the detective grunted in pain. John steadied his movements, reminding himself he has not with a woman, he was with Sherlock, and this was all new to him. He pushed in, trying his hardest to go as slow as possible, but the heat and tightness overwhelmed him and he couldn’t hold back. He grasped Sherlock’s hips tightly, pulling himself deeper.

Sherlock let out a low, deep groan and gripped the desk so hard his knuckles turned white. Alcohol was dulling the pain for him, but it was uncomfortable. He twisted around to watch John moving behind him. John’s eyes were glued to Sherlock’s arse, watching himself. He glanced up when he noticed Sherlock watching him.

“You ok?” he asked.

Sherlock nodded in response. “Bit uncomfortable.”

John withdrew, giving Sherlock a moment to compose himself. Without warning, Sherlock grabbed John in a headlock and pulled him to the bed.

“Sherlock! Wha..” John begun to splutter before his mouth was filled with Sherlock’s tongue.

Sherlock then moved down John’s body, biting his skin hard enough to leave a mark. He made his way back up to John’s mouth.

“Ok. Try again,” he said simply.

“What about the desk? The height difference? I’m too short…” John began to babble in confusion before Sherlock cut him off.

“I don’t like facing away from you,” Sherlock said quietly. “I want to see you.”

“Oh,” was all John could say in reply.

“Now, get on with it!” Sherlock said, reverting back to his bossy self.

John didn’t have to be told again. He re-lubed himself, then moving on top of Sherlock, he once again pushed himself inside the detective. This time Sherlock only winced slightly, his eyes locked on John’s face.

 John began moving his hips in a familiar rhythm. He leaned forward and took Sherlock in his arms. In return, Sherlock wrapped his long legs and arms around John.

The two stayed like that for a long time, wrapped around each other, moving at a steady pace, their breathing becoming more and more rapid. John made a pocket of space between them big enough for him to reach between and grasp Sherlock’s dripping hardness and begin pumping it in unison with his thrusts. Sherlock’s breath hitched and then sped up rapidly.

“John, it feels …” Sherlock was lost for words for the first time in his life. John finished his sentence for him.

“Good?”

“Yes,” Sherlock breathed in his ear. “Good. Very good.”

A small moan escaped Sherlock’s lips and then grew louder and louder as John thrusted harder and harder and stroked him faster and faster. Never in his life had Sherlock felt such a combination of pleasure and pain. The feeling of John moving inside him, his arms wrapped around him, his lips on his neck. It was all too much for him and he felt an irresistible build up in his body.

“John, I’m going to, it’s going to, I can’t hold back any longer!”

John kissed him deeply as he felt the detective come undone in his arms.

Sherlock’s hand dug deep into John’s hips, pulling and slamming his thrusts deeper and harder into him as he felt his body reach the top of the rollercoaster. With one last, deep, satisfying thrust from John, Sherlock came. He yelled John’s name as his body shuddered and let go of years and years of neglected sexual need. He felt as if he had the wind knocked out of him as his cock spilt a sticky, warm mess that glued him and John together.

With a few more thrusts John followed suit and came with a groan and sharp intake of breath that Sherlock found himself mesmerised by. Despite being ridiculously drunk, it was the best orgasm of John’s life. He felt dizzy, weak and completely smitten. The men rolled away from each other and lay side by side, holding hands. They lay bewildered for a while, both silently mulling over what had just passed between them.

It was Sherlock that broke the silence.

“Sex. I understand what all the fuss is about now. Thank you John for enlightening me.”

John laughed in delight and pulled Sherlock into his arms.

“Happy I could help, my dear Sherlock,” he kissed Sherlock on the head.

They lay in silence for a while, waiting for their heartbeats to slow to a normal pace.

“Promise me you will still be here in the morning?” Sherlock asked.

“Why would I go?” John said.

Sherlock hummed in thought. “Many reasons John. Tomorrow will be difficult for you.”

John, still drunk and feeling giddy, laughed.  “Well I’m not going anywhere. And you’re not allowed to either,” he said. He reached beside the bed and picked up the handcuffs, snapping one end to Sherlock’s wrist, the other to a bar on the bedhead.

“Now you’re mine.”

They kissed once more, tenderly. John stroked Sherlock face and ran his hands through his dark curls. Sherlock nestled his head in John’s neck, breathing his scent in deeply.

They fell asleep in each other’s arms, but by morning, they were as far apart as possible.

 

 

 

 


	11. Chapter 11

 

John couldn’t bring himself to go home. He was a mess of a person. Every night he dreamt of silky white skin, blue eyes and dark hair, of kissing perfect lips and entwining himself in long limbs. Sometimes the dreams took a dark turn and John ran from Sherlock, leaving the detective standing on dark corners, yelling his name over and over. However, more often the dreams turned heated and John could almost feel Sherlock’s weight on top of him, their skin rubbing together in friction. He always woke up with sticky sheets after those dreams.

John couldn’t decide which dreams were more painful.

He battled, ignored, dwelled on, accepted then subsequently dismissed his feelings and found he was going round in circles. Just when he thought he was feeling better, he would have a vivid flashback, or a dream would awaken something in him, and he would be back to the start – not knowing how to deal with what had happened, what it all meant.

He finally accepted that he was confused. Utterly and hopelessly confused.

After every dream, he ritually chanted his familiar phrase to himself.

_I’m not gay._

_Not gay not gay not gay not gay._

He tried to drum the phrase into his mind. He knew he wasn’t gay. He had never had even the slightest attraction to a man before.

_But Sherlock._

Sherlock was the exception. Sherlock was different. He defied categories, he was above labels. He was neither male nor female - he was so much more than human. John could almost picture Sherlock explaining it.

_Gender? Gender is dull, boring, irrelevant._

This was nothing to do with sexuality, John mused. It was so much more than that.

He had been staying in a hotel (a different one from the one they had spent their infamous night in) for a week before he heard from Sherlock. It was a Friday afternoon when he got the message.

_Where are you? SH_

He ignored it, but not out of anger. He felt a deep, painful embarrassment and the thought of facing his flatmate and confronting what had happened made him feel nauseous.

An hour later his phone beeped again.

_No cases. Bored. SH_

Then exactly an hour later (he must be giving him a time limit, John mused) another message.

_Emergency. Come home quick.SH_

John knew in Sherlock-speak an “emergency” could mean a number of things, and very rarely actually meant a proper emergency. He decided to humour the detective.

_Go to the hospital then._

_Not that type of emergency. SH_

_Call Mycroft then._

John didn’t hear back from Sherlock for the rest of the day after that.

As he went about his afternoon errands, he couldn’t help but feel he was being watched. He kept a keen eye out for a long coat and lean figure, but nothing appeared. He picked up a few items from the supermarket and began the walk back to the shabby hotel he was staying in. He didn’t notice the black car following him until it pulled up right in front of him outside his hotel.

John rolled his eyes and got in.

“Hello Mycroft,” he said to the umbrella-wielding man sitting next to him.

“Doctor Watson.”

“If this is about Sherlock’s _emergency_ , I’m not interested in what he has blown up, or burnt, or, or ruined. He needs to learn to deal with these things himself,” John said angrily.

Mycroft put both hands over the handle of his umbrella and stared out the window of the stationary car. “My brother does indeed have an emergency. He actually phoned me yesterday. Do you know how many times he has called me in our lives? Well, I can assure you, it isn’t many.”

The elder Holmes brother looked over at John.

“What happened at the hotel Doctor? Sherlock won’t say a word to me. I would have loved to have seen his face when he unwrapped the gift basket,” Mycroft chuckled to himself.

“Yeah, thanks for that,” John muttered through gritted teeth.

“So what happened at the hotel? And why were you there in the first place?” Mycroft pushed on, ignoring his passenger’s obvious discomfort.

John gazed out the window, not wanting to meet Mycroft’s piercing, knowing stare. A stare that was so much like his brother’s. He briefly considered telling Mycroft everything; minus some of the more intimate details, but dismissed the thought. It was too soon.  He kept his mouth closed and his gaze fixed out the window until Mycroft got the hint.

“Fine, I won’t pry into your business Doctor Watson. I was merely hoping to find a clue as to the reason of my brother’s … querulous behaviour.”

“Sherlock’s being difficult? What a surprise. Try living with him, now _that_ is difficult,” John snapped. He really wasn’t in the mood to deal with Mycroft’s babble.

Mycroft ignored John’s tone and continued.

“Yes, I trust it hasn’t been easy living with him. It is a tremendous testament to the depth of love you must have for him that you have lasted this long together.”

Mycroft said the statement so flippantly that it took John a few seconds for him to process it.

“I don’t _love_ Sherlock Holmes,” he said through gritted teeth.

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “Of course you do John. In whatever way that fits you two. And I know he loves you too. He practically told me.”

“He told you he loves me?” John asked incredulously, his anger dropping away.

“Well, not in so many words. But when I asked him where you were, he threw a perfectly good set of sheep’s lungs at me. Made quite the mess. Sherlock has always expressed his emotions through his actions though. After that, I thought I had better track you down for a chat.”

John snorted. “Sherlock doesn’t have emotions.”

Mycroft was silent for a moment before replying.

“He does.”

John was about to say something biting back, but when he turned to the elder Holmes brother, a look of desperate sadness was etched across his weary face.

“He’s falling apart, John,” Mycroft said quietly. His prim façade had dropped, and for the first time ever John saw the real man beneath the icy exterior.

“He doesn’t need me. He needs you. I don’t know what transpired between you two, but you have to go back.”

John shifted awkwardly in his seat.

“It’s not that easy Mycroft. We have … issues that are difficult to resolve.”

Mycroft’s manner suddenly shifted. It was not the answer he wanted to hear from John. His eyes narrowed and hardened, his lips pursed into a tight frown. He looked almost frightening John thought. Almost. He reached over John and pushed the car door open with the end of his umbrella.

“Then resolve them Doctor Watson. Get out.”

John stumbled out of the car, almost falling in the gutter. Before Mycroft slammed the door he made one final remark to John.

“You’re all he has Doctor Watson. You two are bound in a way no one, including me, will ever understand. If you abandon him now, you leave him to his ruin.”

The black car was gone before John could stand, leaving him alone in front of his hotel utterly lost for words. As much as he didn’t want to admit it, John knew Mycroft was right. He needed to man up and face Sherlock, no matter what.

Besides, a small voice at the back of his mind whispered, he missed him.

Desperately.

 


	12. Chapter 12

John stood on the step of 221B Baker street waiting. What he was waiting for, he didn’t know, but he could not bring himself to enter the house yet. He reached into his pocket and brought out the key, slowly raising it to the lock. He hesitated before slotting it in. He then stood frozen, the key motionless in the door. All it would take was a small wrist movement and he would have crossed the threshold. He didn’t know if he could handle this yet. It was too soon, too awkward. He had no idea how a man like Sherlock would deal with what happened. After all, John had taken his virginity.

John winced at the thought. He was not yet ready to deal with that bit of information yet.

His phone beeped in his pocket.

_Stop dithering on the doorstep and come inside. You’re making the neighbours uncomfortable. SH_

He had no choice now so he finally turned the key and pushed the door open. He was slightly dazed as he made his way up the stairs, each footstep falling heavily with a thud. He knew Sherlock would be taking note of every movement, cataloguing it in his brilliant mind to try to surmise John’s actions.

His hand was steady as he pushed open the door and stepped into their living room. As his eyes swept the familiar room a sudden rush of how much he had missed the home gripped him. He had almost forgotten how much he loved living here with Sherlock. He frowned in puzzlement. How had he allowed to block that from his mind so easily?

Before he could dwell on the matter anymore, a tall figure stepped into the room pulling John’s thoughts back to the present.

Sherlock stood tall and proud, dressed intimidatingly in all black, his curls sitting perfectly and his hands clasped behind his back. His eyes raked over John.

“You haven’t been sleeping properly,” he said, not moving from his spot.

John cleared his throat and tried to prise his gaze away from Sherlock, but he was finding it difficult. He couldn’t start staring at the exposed small V of white skin at his throat. He finally managed to drop his gaze to the floor.

An awkward moment passed before John found his voice.

“Hotel beds. You know what they’re like.”

The words were out of John’s mouth before he could think about them, and as soon as he said them it was painfully embarrassing. The elephant in the room was practically causing a stampede.

An odd smile quickly flashed across Sherlock’s lips.

“Yes, I am well aware.”

Feeling slightly overwhelmed, John crashed down into his chair and put his face in his hands.

“God Sherlock, what are we doing? How do we fix this?” he said through his fingers.

Sherlock took his own chair opposite John and sat calmly, his fingers steepled in front of him.

“Are you going to come home?”

He stared at John with his bright, unblinking eyes. John looked up at him.

“I don’t know,” he paused, “do you want me to come home?”

Sherlock tilted his head and continued his hard stare at John, making the army doctor squirm in discomfort under his gaze. John often wondered what Sherlock deduced when he looked at him, and now was no different. What was he seeing in his face? He would surely have noticed his hands digging into the chair’s cushions, his rigid pose and his shifting feet. Perhaps, John thought, Sherlock could explain to him how he was feeling, because it was still all a big confusing mess to him.

Finally Sherlock stood up and wandered over to stare out the window. John found he was almost holding his breath as he waited for a reply.

“I want you to come home,” Sherlock said in barely more than a whisper. If the flat hadn’t been so deathly quiet, John might not have heard him at all.

“Right. Right. Well, I will do that.” John awkwardly cleared his throat and went to stand up. He found that he had desperately needed to hear those words from Sherlock, and that scared him.

“However,” Sherlock said, startling John.

“What?” John said, dropping back into his seat.

“However, you must let me use some of the footage to establish myself as your lover.”

John blinked and stared at Sherlock.

“What?” He said again.

“The matter still stands that no one trusts me. Our original plan is still the best.”

John just stared at him, his mouth slightly open. Sherlock, reading John’s answer in his expression, narrowed his eyes in annoyance.

“I don’t see what the problem is here John. This is what we planned from the beginning, and I am being conventionally polite by asking your permission, even though the plan was a previously agreed upon one, so I don’t see why you are making this so difficult!” Sherlock was beginning to raise his voice just high enough to indicate he was getting angry, yet he was not nearly as angry as the red-hot rage that was beginning to surge through John, just waiting to be released.

John leaped up from his chair and took a step towards Sherlock.

“You … you. How can you not understand that this has moved past that Sherlock?” He said in a strained voice. “We had SEX Sherlock, how are you not registering that? How can you possibly think that was a normal thing for us to do? I don’t know how you can be so carefree about it when I have been freaking out about it every minute since it happened!”

John’s voice rose louder and louder and he started pacing the room as Sherlock simply stood and watched him, his eyebrows slightly raised.

“I don’t sleep with men, ever, I’m straight, and you, you just stand there like it was the most normal thing in the world to happen, because you can always handle the bizarre, and maybe it was normal in your world, but in mine it wasn’t!” John knew he was rambling and yelling in the middle of the living room, but he couldn’t stop. He needed to get it out of his system.

He was about to open his mouth to start another tirade when Sherlock spoke up.

“You speak of normality, normal is a pointless construct John, what’s normal to one is not to another. What’s normal to me is what feels right to me, and in that I can assess that what happened between us was indeed normal for me.”

John stopped his pacing and turned to stare at his friend.

“What are you saying Sherlock?” He said the words slowly.

Sherlock took a step forward, swiftly closing the gap between them. He didn’t reach out to John though, instead choosing to leave a comfortable distance between them. John was glad. He didn’t need any more confusion smudging his senses.

“Come home John,” Sherlock said. “It’s time for you to come home.”

John tilted his chin up defiantly.

“I will come home if you promise you will never release that video tape, or any images from it.”

Sherlock stared at him, unmoving.

“I mean it Sherlock. You have to make a choice. It’s either me or your work. I know that’s not a fair thing to say to you, but you need to realise the importance of this to me.”

Sherlock frowned. “I don’t understand. When it was pretend, you were fine with the plan. Now it … has moved on from that, you are against it?”

John sighed, Sherlock had a point. He had agreed to it all from the start.

“It’s different now though isn’t it. It’s personal. Before it was just another one of your crazy schemes, like breaking into a house, or disguising ourselves as bible salesmen. It’s much easier to go along with something when you can categorise it as ‘another one of Sherlock’s adventures’, but when it passes from pretend to reality, it’s not about them anymore Sherlock, it’s about us.”

“It’s about us,” Sherlock echoed back in wonderment, his voice whispery and his eyes slightly glazed over. John wondered if he was finally getting through to him.

“What do you want from me Sherlock? What do you want from us?” he asked quietly.

The tall detective stood still, his mind whirling behind his brilliant eyes. John waited patiently for his answer.

“I want you to come home, obviously,” Sherlock answered.

John moved awkwardly from foot to foot, knowing he would have to press Sherlock harder.

“But what else do you want Sherlock? Do you want things to go back to how they were? Or do you want … more?”

Sherlock frowned, a small line appearing between his eyebrows. As John watched his friend struggle to answer his questions, he finally realised that he was not the only one puzzled over his feelings. Sherlock was confused too, but in a very different way. Whereas John knew he was having a sexuality crisis, Sherlock’s confusion was much deeper. He had spent his whole life ignoring sentiment, but now it was hitting him full force and he had no way to deal with it. John could practically see the cogs in his brain working overtime to try to make sense of what he was experiencing. Perhaps, John wondered, Sherlock pushing so hard to carry out his plan was a way to distract himself from his feelings. If he could keep their actions organised in his brain as purely following a course of action, then everything could stay the same and he didn’t have to deal with the truth. He could see how easily Sherlock could distance himself from it all. 

But John wouldn’t let Sherlock do that.

“Sherlock, what do you want?” He pushed.

Sherlock opened his mouth to say something, snapped it shut and then turned to the window.

“I want you here John. I don’t like it when I can’t see you, or talk to you. I want you here with me. Always.”

John nodded. That was a good start, but he needed to hear more.

“What else?” he prompted.

Sherlock stayed in his spot, facing away from John, staring out the window.

“I want, I want you to want to be here too.”

“I do want to be here,” John said honestly. “I want it more than anything else in the world.”

Sherlock froze at John’s words and slowly turned to face him.

“Oh!” the detective exclaimed, his eyes bright. The last pieces of the puzzle were finally clicking into place in his brilliant mind. He took a step towards John.

“I want to go to crime scenes together, to laugh, have dinner, play cluedo and go for walks together. To make fun of stupid people together. I want to play my violin to help you fall asleep. Then … I want to hold you as you sleep.”

“Why?” John dared ask.

Sherlock smiled. “I don’t know. It just seems _normal_ to me. I just never recognised it until you broke down my defences. I am vulnerable to you now John Watson.”

John took a deep, steadying breath and nodded. For the first time in days, things were beginning to make sense. And the closer Sherlock came to him, the clearer his mind got.

 “What else?” he pushed, as Sherlock stood over him.

“I want to touch you, and I want you to touch me.”

They both instinctively reached out and took each other’s hand.

“I want everything that is you, and in return I will give you everything that is me,” Sherlock said, tilting his face down to John’s.

“Come home John. Please,” he whispered, calmly.

John nodded, his brain telling his to take a step backwards, but his body not responding.

Sherlock’s eyes darted over his face rapidly, reading John’s instinct to retreat. He moved quickly before John pulled away and grabbed both his arms, locking him in stillness. He then bent his head down and kissed him. It was deep, relaxing and wonderful.

All John’s preconceived ideas of sexuality disappeared. He realised in that split second this wasn’t about kissing a man, it was about kissing Sherlock Holmes.

And Sherlock felt the last trace of resistance fade away as for the first time in his life he completely gave himself over to another person. But it wasn’t just any person, he reminded himself. It was John Watson.

The duo were so completely wrapped up in each other, enjoying their first ever sober kiss, that neither noticed the flash of a camera through their window.

 

  


	13. Chapter 13

For the second time in his life, John Watson woke up next to Sherlock Holmes. But for the first time in his life, he was happy about it.

He rolled over and gazed at his beautiful friend, finally fully appreciating every facet of him. Sherlock opened his eyes and smiled back.  He reached one of his long, pale hands up and swept his fingers lightly over John’s cheek.

“John.”

It was all he needed to say.

 

* * *

 

Their second time sleeping together had been so exponentially different from their first, it was almost like they were experiencing it for the first time all over again.

They had been in the warm comfort of 221B, John’s bed to be exact, and had been sober, gentle and slow. John found himself mesmerised by the feel of Sherlock moving underneath him. The detective’s usually proper façade gradually slipped from him bit by bit as he let himself go.

There were brief moments of pain, but these were counteracted with many, many more moments of pleasure. John was astounded at the things he found himself doing, wanting to do, and wanting to have done to him. And although part of him was terrified by the very real fact that he was having sex with a man, the resounding echo in his mind of _Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock_ drowned these thoughts out tenfold.

Yes, their second time had been very different from their first.

However, it started the same way – with a kiss.

* * *

 

After they broke apart, both oblivious to the camera flashing from across the street, John took Sherlock’s hand and led him upstairs to his bedroom. Nothing needed to be said, both men knew what was happening.

As they entered his room, John nodded to his bed, where Sherlock promptly sat, his eyes wide and glued to John.

John’s vast experience in seduction kicked in and he pulled out all his usual tricks. He dimmed his lights, switched on some low, moody music and quickly lit the two scented candles that sat on his bedside table. Sherlock watched his every move with a smile. John smiled back and sat down on the bed beside him.

“Sherlock, I th..” he started to sat before he was cut off with a deep kiss from his flatmate-turned-lover.

Whatever John was going to say was immediately forgotten as Sherlock’s hands slipped under his shirt and dragged it over his head.  

“I kept the video,” Sherlock murmured into his ear.

John undid the buttons on Sherlock’s black shirt and pulled it back off his shoulders. He paused and ran his hands over his friend’s chest.

“What video?” he said absently.

“The video of us. Obviously,” Sherlock said, his hands pulling off John’s belt.

“Oh,” John said as he took off his shoes and socks, “why?”

Sherlock stood up, undid his trousers and gracefully stepped out of them. John followed his lead. They both flopped to the bed, dressed only in their boxes; Sherlock’s jet black and silky, John’s cotton and dark green.

“Because I didn’t want to forget,” Sherlock said, pulling John close.

John ran a hand through Sherlock’s hair and down his back, revelling in the tightness of his muscles.

“Not because you wanted to use it to get more cases?”

Sherlock took a deep breath and looked into John’s eyes.

“I don’t want cases, I just want you.”

It was such an un-Sherlock thing to say that John almost laughed, except his thoughts were broken by a hand diving into his boxer shorts.

“Oh, crap!” He said.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Really John, don’t be so dramatic."

That was a much more Sherlock thing to say and John was far more comfortable with it. He relaxed into Sherlock’s embrace.

John had always prided himself on his foreplay techniques. He knew where, and how, to kiss and touch a woman to get a response and how long it took until she was ready. However, as with everything he did, Sherlock was as unreadable as ever. John was determined to crack his mystery though.

He began by kissing along his neck and working his way up to gently suck his earlobe. This move, which usually earned him a small moan, simply got him an eye roll and a nudge in the chest. John mentally crossed it off his list of moves. He tried licking along Sherlock’s collarbone while stroking his thigh, but Sherlock remained impassive.

He next tried his nipples. Despite his best efforts, his hands, tongue and teeth made little effect on the cool genius who simply looked at him in puzzlement. John sighed in resignation and ran his hands up Sherlock’s arms. He wasn’t ready to give up yet.

Being somewhat unexperienced in these matters, Sherlock was happy to take the metaphorical passenger’s seat and watch John’s moves with open fascination.

John noted this, and desperately wanting to prove his finesse as a lover, decided it was time to lift his game. In his usual routine, the woman would be loosened up by now and John would let his hand drift down between her legs and gently massage her clit with his thumb, while inserting a finger inside her. John took a deep breath and quickly tried to calculate what the equivalent move would be on a man.

It wasn’t hard to work out, but he realised he would need two hands to do it. Reaching down he grasped Sherlock’s cock with one hand and his arse with the other. He felt the detective tense up and John was glad he had finally managed to make an impression on him.

He brought his mouth back up to Sherlock’s, biting gently on his lip before kissing him deeply. Every single time their lips met, John was mesmerised by their feel. It was so unlike anything he had ever experienced before. Sherlock’s lips were full and soft, his skin smooth, yet behind each kiss was a desperate, deep push that was masculine and endearing in its passion.

John broke away from him momentarily to fish out a bottle of lube from his bedside draw. Sherlock glanced at the bottle and gave John a small nod of permission.

John covered the finger on one of his hands liberally with the lube and placed that hand on Sherlock’s arse. With is other hand he took hold of the detective’s length once again.

He faltered for a moment in doubt and looked into Sherlock’s expectant eyes. John knew he was supposed to be the experienced one here, and the pressure surrounding his reputation was building. Sure, he knew he was a good lover, but all his experiences were based with women. This was unfamiliar territory to him and he honestly wasn’t sure he knew what he was doing. He didn’t want to let Sherlock down.

No, he reminded himself, he could do this. He gave himself a quick pep talk.

_Yes, I’m dealing with different body parts, yes Sherlock is an extraordinary man, but biology is biology and Sherlock wouldn’t be doing this if he wasn’t enjoying it. He would have pronounced it boring and left the room well before now, so stop being a wimp and get on with it!_

Taking a deep breath, John slowly inserted a finger inside Sherlock. He gathered all his co-ordination and concentrated on building a matching rhythm between both hands. Despite his slight fumbling, Sherlock seemed to be enjoying it. His long fingers dug into John’s hips and his breathing became heavy. John was pleased to note a slight sheen of sweat begin to appear on his brow, dampening his dark curls.

John smiled to himself, his confidence growing. He was back in the game.

He waited until Sherlock seemed ready, and he didn’t really have to wait long. It was time to make the next move.

In a smooth motion, he moved so he was lying on top of Sherlock, keeping their mouths locked together. John was thrilled with how eagerly his companion was going along with his every move. He seemed happy to let John lead the way, and now things were warmed up between them, he was responsive and passionate. His fingers dug so deeply into John, he was sure there would be marks left tomorrow, and every time John went to try something different he willingly gave himself in to it with no hesitation. So when John slipped on a condom, coated his length in lube and positioned himself between Sherlock’s legs, the detective simply shifted himself into an easier-access position and trailed his fingers down John’s back, coming to rest on his arse. He nuzzled his head into John’s neck and breathed heavily into his ear.

No words were needed; the pair had long ago perfected the art of communicating to each other with their eyes.

Very slowly, and with one of his hands guiding him, John pressed himself into Sherlock. He found he had to stop himself a couple of times to let Sherlock take a deep, relaxing breath. John had always thought himself to be a caring lover.

Sherlock kept his eyes tightly closed as John pressed into him further, no doubt memorising the feeling of every inch of John entering his body.  With a final push, John was completely inside Sherlock’s warmth. The detective’s eyes flew open and locked with John’s.

Keeping their eyes together, John began moving his hips. He didn’t want to drop his gaze from Sherlock’s for even a split second. He wanted to see every emotion that passed over his usually-composed face.

Sherlock was well aware of John’s observant gaze and was trying his hardest to remain stoic, however he was quickly becoming undone and finding it more and more difficult to appear apathetic.

John would have laughed if he hadn’t been so incredibly turned on.

He concentrated on every reaction Sherlock’s body gave him. Knowing when he grunted in discomfort to slow down or change his angle, and when he arched his neck to keep going. Before long the detective’s long arms were spread out on either side of him, his hands gripping the sheets. His mouth was open in a permanent look of surprise and his eyes were glazing over. John felt the pressure building up inside him and his thrusts quickened with enthusiasm, taking Sherlock by surprise. John reached a hand between them and grabbed Sherlock’s cock, working his hand roughly over the end.

After this it didn’t take long for Sherlock to come. He went completely still before his release, then gasped, shuddered and kicked out his legs. John followed a split second behind, his eyes still glued to Sherlock’s face as he thrust deep inside him a final time, letting himself call out his lover’s name.

They let themselves lie in stillness for a moment, enjoying the closeness of their post-sex haze. John had a huge grin on his face as he rolled off a dazed and slightly panting Sherlock.

 He was completely and utterly proud of himself.

 

* * *

 

Mycroft was sitting in his home office sipping a glass of port when there was a knock at the door.

“Enter.”

A middle-aged, portly man with a small, pointed beard entered. A camera case was draped around his neck and he clutched an envelope.

“Ah, Eddie, you were able to get the shots? I am very interested to see what my brother has been hiding this time. You know his past Eddie, how he was abused his body with drugs. I can’t take any risks,” Mycroft said, taking the envelope from the photographer’s hands.

“Yes, you are a good brother to keep such a close eye on him, however, er,” Eddie shifted uncomfortably, his eyes darting around the room.

“What is it? Spit it out!” Mycroft demanded.

“Well, maybe you should just look at the photos.”

Mycroft gave his photographer a cool look, then flipped open the envelope, roughly pulling the prints out. He flipped through them silently, his eyes darting over the photos but giving nothing away. After a lengthy five minutes he tucked the pictures back in the envelope and sat down in his chair. He gazed into his glass of port, lost in thought. After a while he looked up at Eddie, a small smirk on his face.

“Well, that explains a lot.”

 

 


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ok, jeez, sorry for the wait. I have no excuse that you haven't heard before.   
> This chapter jumps around in time a bit. Basically it’s the whole story from Mycroft’s POV.

 

 

 

Mycroft Holmes prided himself on always knowing exactly what was going on in his younger brother’s world. He had spent his entire life, from the day Sherlock was born, keeping one eye, one surveillance camera, one spy, always on him. He did not do it out of a desire to snoop into his little brother’s life, more so to make sure Sherlock was ok. You see, he worried about him constantly.

Lately, however, his brother was besting him.

Mycroft watched the bizarre soap drama of John and Sherlock’s relationship play out, and he had no idea what was happening- and he hated it. The lack of control he had was driving him crazy.

His initial reports had stated that the pair were suddenly a couple, and were going around informing all their friends of this sudden and surprising fact. This startled and worried him deeply. Mycroft had never known Sherlock to have a relationship of any sort with anyone, so this sudden revelation had all the appearances of one of his brother’s foolish schemes. But he rolled his eyes and let it pass. Sometimes it was more fun to sit back and watch, than try to control.

Mycroft was then highly amused to learn that Sherlock had booked a hotel room and watched via CCTV as the two men turned up in the foyer at precisely 7pm, John looking uncomfortable and Sherlock distracted. Mycroft simply chuckled and got Anthea to send them the biggest erotic gift basket she could find. If Sherlock wasn’t going to tell him what was going on, he was going to make him suffer for it. He simply saw it as his duty as an older brother.

His surveillance was cut off after that. For the rest of the night he neither heard nor saw anything of the two men. Until the next morning.

His camera’s spotted a frantic and dishevelled-looking John dashing from the hotel, as if fleeing from a crime. Mycroft frowned and zoomed in on the doctor. Something had happened, it was obvious. He watched as John made his way to the nearest café and slumped into a seat. Mycroft couldn’t stay silent any longer, something had to be done. He whipped out his phone and sent a quick message to John, then sat back and watched as he read it.

_Don’t you dare leave him alone any longer. If you cared for him (as I know you do) you would go back to that hotel room right now. (Also, I do hope you boys had a fun night with my gift basket.) -MH_

Mycroft chuckled as John cast an irritated glare into the air around him, obviously directed at the mysterious camera he was watching him from. Mycroft nodded to himself in a vague gesture of respect. John was a smart man. In many ways, he was probably smarter than Sherlock and himself.

He sent him another message.

_Stop glaring at me and get a move on. He is waiting. – MH_

Mycroft watched as John seemed to squirm in his seat, an internal conflict clearly running through his mind. It only lasted a moment however, and then he was on his feet and dashing back towards the hotel.

Mycroft kept watch over the hotel for the rest of the morning, watching as Sherlock and John left separately.

From then on, things got worse. His sources told him Sherlock never left the house and John was holed up in a shabby hotel. Mycroft tried to arrange the pieces of the puzzle together in his head, but nothing seemed to fit. Nothing about what had happened over the past few days seemed to make any sense. One fact seemed to be a certainty to him however, and that was that John and Sherlock were most definitely not a couple. It was impossible. It was preposterous. John was straight, Sherlock was … disinterested. Some huge, cosmic shift would have had to happen to bring the two of them into any sort of romantic relationship. Mycroft just couldn’t accept it, in his mind there had to be another explanation.

 

* * *

 

Then one day, out of the blue, his phone rang. He stared in shock at the screen as his brother’s name flashed up.

“What happened?” he said calmly as he answered the phone.

“John left,” came the sullen reply.

“He will come back.”

Mycroft sighed.

“What happened Sherlock? It must be important otherwise you wouldn’t call me.”

“I told you, John left.”

“I’m coming over. I will be there in five minutes.”

Another pause.

“Fine,” Sherlock answered, then hung up.

It wasn’t the most unusual phone call of Mycroft’s life, but it came close.

* * *

 

 

When Mycroft arrived at 221B Sherlock was reticent, withdrawn and snappy. He watched as his little brother poked at a pair of sheep’s lungs with a sharpened chopstick.

“Where’s John, Sherlock?” he asked calmly, tilting his chin up as if he was inspecting the ceiling. Mycroft had learnt that with Sherlock it was always best to keep a vaguely disinterested air about you when looking for answers - Sherlock hated to be closely scrutinised.

Without warning Sherlock leapt up and in an uncharacteristic outburst hurled the sheep’s lungs in Mycroft’s direction, missing him by an inch.

Mycroft barely flinched. “You would have been in a lot of trouble if you had gotten blood on my suit,” he sniffed, staring down at the mess the lungs had made.

“You ruined my experiment,” Sherlock said bitterly, folding his arms across his chest.

“Sherlock, please. I don’t know what you did to … scare … Doctor Watson away,” Mycroft began. “Hopefully it did not involve throwing animal organs at him.”

Sherlock glared at his brother. Mycroft stepped forwards and purposefully sat down in John’s chair. Sherlock watched him, a strange drop of emotion transforming his face for a split second as Mycroft entered a site that was so wholly John’s.

“We …,” Sherlock began, then paused. “It wasn’t supposed to go like this. If I choose my career, I lose John’s respect. If I protect John, I lose my world. It seems obvious to me that I must choose my career, but something is holding me back.”

Mycroft stared out the window, unravelling Sherlock’s words in his mind. _Something had changed, something huge …_

He sighed and turned back to his brother. “I don’t know what’s going on, I don’t know if I really want to, but you need to make a choice. What do you want Sherlock? Do you want to have your cake and eat it too? Because you can’t brother dear. You have two roads in front of you, and only you can choose which one to venture down.”

Sherlock glared at him, a look of anxiety crossed over his face, then dropped away. His carefully constructed image of self-preservation disappeared and Mycroft saw the vulnerability of his brother for the first time since he was a child.

“I want both. How can I have both? Mycroft. You have to help me.”

Mycroft sat back in the chair, his fingers steepled in front of him. He took in his younger brother – dressed in his pyjamas, a manic, desperate look in his eyes. He looked so young, so innocent. Something in Mycroft’s heart twitched.

“Ok Sherlock,” he said slowly. “I will talk to John. I will fix this. Whatever is takes?”

Sherlock signed in relief. He rubbed a hand through his curls. He was so tired, so drained. He missed John.

“Yes Mycroft. Whatever it takes.”

Mycroft nodded to his brother and without saying another word he stood up and left 221B. An idea began to formulate in his mind, a twinkling of what his brother might mean. And if he was right, Sherlock was in a whole lot of trouble.

 

* * *

 

And now Mycroft was back sitting in his office. Thinking over everything that had happened over the past could of weeks, and it was all starting to finally make sense. He glanced down at the photos in front of him and made a quick decision. It was time for something to be done. He just needed one final confirmation that his hypothesis was correct.

He reached over and picked up his phone, tapping in a familiar number.

“Lestrade here,” a no-nonsense voice answered.

“Quick question,” Mycroft said, not bothering to say who he was. “Has my brother done anything odd lately?” He paused. “Odder than usual I mean.”

There was a silence on the other end of the line. Mycroft could almost picture Lestrade running a hand through his silver hair.

“I had a feeling you would be calling soon. And yes, extremely strange. About a week ago he strolled into the office with John and announced they were suddenly a couple. As you can imagine, we were all sceptical. I don’t know what is going on, but I can’t help but feel it has something to do with his work drying up. Maybe he is finally cracking?” Lestrade sighed into the phone.

“Can’t you just give him a case or two?” Mycroft said good naturedly, already knowing the answer.

“You know I can’t, Mycroft. Not right now. We both know the power of the media. And I have already had countless warnings from higher up about letting Sherlock be involved. You know I would love to help him, and we actually really do need him, but until the press stop referring him to a psychopath, there’s not much I can do.” He sounded exhausted.

“No, of course not. I understand. Thank you Greg,” Mycroft said before hanging up. He leaned back in his chair and pressed his finger tips to his lips. So, it was as he surmised. Sherlock had a choice to make and it was a tough one. _But_ , Mycroft pondered, looking down at the photographs spread out in front of him. _What if that decision wasn’t his to make?_ He picked up one photo in particular. It was of the two men, their arms wrapped around each other, John grinning up into Sherlock’s face, and Sherlock smiling back. He had never seen his brother look so happy.

But how long would it last? A day? A week? What will happen when Sherlock starts itching for a case again, and it drives a wedge between them? What they have now, a hidden relationship is not sustainable, Mycroft knew. It would only lead them in a circle and they would both end up alone, unhappy and far worse off than either of them have been before. No, there was only one solution that Mycroft could see. A part of him was loath to do it, but then he remembered Sherlock’s desperate words of “ _whatever it takes”._

It was a promise, and Mycroft Holmes always kept his promises.

Once again he picked up his phone and made a call.

“Hello, may I please speak with the editor? I have a present for him from an anonymous source.”

 

* * *

 

John woke up feeling pretty good, if not a bit sore. He rolled out of bed, with a quick glance at his still-sleeping bedmate. _Who would have thought, Sherlock sleeping in?_ He chuckled to himself.

He stumbled out of bed and shuffled his way into the kitchen, wincing slightly as certain parts of his body twinged in pain. _That’s a pain I will have to get used to,_ he thought to himself, smirking slightly.

He noticed his phone sitting on the counter and picked it up, then almost dropped it in shock. Twenty messages and thirty eight missed calls. Never in his life had he had that many messages. In fact, the most he ever had would be two or three. Something bad has happened, a voice in the back of his head whispered. Feeling a sense of dread build in his stomach, he opened the first message, it was from Harry.

_I knew it._ Was all it said.

Perplexed, he opened the next one, from Mike.

_Well, that is a shock. You could have told me you know. Hope all is well._

He scanned through the names of everyone who had messaged him, his eyes settling on one.

Mycroft Holmes.

He opened the message from him. It didn’t say anything, just had a link to a news article. Anxiety pressed in on him as he waited for the page to load.

Finally it appeared on his screen. At first he thought that someone had set up an elaborate hoax. Then he realised, and his stomach dropped.

There on the home page of the trashy news site was a clear photo of Sherlock and him, wound around each other, Sherlock’s head bowing down and John reaching up in a deep kiss.

A headline declared, teasingly, _Sherlock’s power of seduction._

John read on.

_The rumours surrounding the relationship between famous detective Sherlock Holmes and his live-in partner Doctor John Watson have been confirmed as fact after a series of photos were made public. The photos show the loved up couple in a number of compromising positions while inside their shared home on Baker Street. A source tells us the couple have been together for a while, but decided to keep it a secret._

John couldn’t read any more, panic and anger filled him. He stormed into the bedroom and threw his phone at Sherlock, waking him. Sherlock sat bolt upright, reading John’s fury in every inch of his body. John paced back and forth.

“You promised Sherlock. You said you wouldn’t go ahead with this. And now we’re plastered all over the media!”

“What are you talking about John?” Sherlock snapped, his eyes glued to John.

“ _I don’t want cases, I just want you_. That’s what you said Sherlock, or was that all just bullshit?”

Sherlock opened his mouth to protest, but John hadn’t finished.

“Oh, I should have known. I shouldn’t have underestimated how far you would go for a case. You are so clever. Using me once again in one of your messed up experiments. This is like Baskerville, but a thousand times worse.”

John was getting more and more wound up. Sherlock watched him, entranced and confused. For the first time in his life he was utterly at a loss of what to do, he just knew he had to get John to stop moving around so much and to shut up so he could think. So he jumped out of bed and grabbed John by the shoulders, forcing him to stand still. John stared at him, fuming, his teeth clenched. He opened his mouth to say something, but before he could, Sherlock moved forward and startled him with a forced kiss.

John pushed him away roughly and gave him a piercing glare.

“Well, he said quietly. “Looks like your plan worked out perfectly for you. You got exactly what you wanted.”

Sherlock knelt up on the bed, his arms outstretched towards John, pleadingly. “John, if you would just listen…”

“I don’t want to listen; I want you to explain how photos of us are now suddenly all over the news.”

“I swear John, I had nothing to do with it.”

“Well who else has could it be hmm? The only person who has any insight into our lives is …” John fell mute, realization suddenly dawning on him. “… Mycroft.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak but a thought crept into his mind that silenced him.

_“Whatever it takes.”_

And he knew it was his entire fault.


End file.
